Doors.

It’s all about doors.
You leave; ‘it opened up doors for you’. When you start; ‘think of the doors it will open for you’.

One door closes, another door opens.

As one door closed, and the morning rose, I lay in bed and wondered if I could count the doors I passed through that day. I decided it was ludicrous but, with no other particular thing to do, I decided I could give it a go.

Get up; immediately faced with 2 door conquests; bedroom and bathroom, back through bathroom and into bedroom again.
That’s 2 doors, 4 times; check.

Stranded in bedroom.

Hmm… the morning routine is quite a few doors to triumph and counting is going to take either time or memory.

Bedroom (x 1)
Kitchen to deliver last night’s mugs (x 2)
Living room to wake Egon (x 1)
Reading room to draw the curtains (x 2)
Back through living room ( x 1 ) and back into kitchen ( x 1)

Put the kettle on. It’s probably time to make some tea and write all of this down.

That’s 5 doors, 12 times… and so far none of these doors have been anywhere near as life changing as I might have hoped for.

The kettle boils and as I put my hand through the fridge door, I wonder if this counts. Hmm, probably better not to go down that route.

So onward and upwards (or upstairs at least).

Bathroom (x 1)
The shower door definitely counts and is the best door yet (x 2).
Bathroom (x 1)
Bedroom (x 2)
Washed, dressed and raring to go…

…almost.

Bathroom (x 2); bedroom (x 2); living room (x 2); kitchen (x 2); green room (x 2); bedroom (x 2) all at breakneck speed, until the final pat-down to check I have phone, wallet, keys and all the other daily ‘essentials’.

Finally out of the front door and an extra 3 doors have been acquired.

Total so far, 8 doors, 31 times and still nothing to write home about.

Car door (x 1) and I’m hitting the road to adventure (sort of).

Arrive at 24 Tudor Lane, Cardiff.
Car door (x 1) unload ceramics and knock at the second most exciting door of the day and definitely the most brightly coloured.
It has to be said that after counting doors in your head all day, the mere sight of another human fills you with joy, and what better person than Becky Adams? Of course, it also helps to confess your door counting within the realms of an artist studio collective, where nothing seems at all out of the ordinary. So the counting continues…

Studio door (x 1)
Internal studio door (x 1)
Deliver three beautiful teapots to artist Lisa Krigel’s studio (x 2)
Deliver 1 gold heart to Natalia Dias, whose unusual door almost vexed my opening skills (x 2)
Deliver eloquent bowls to Sara Moorhouse (x 2)
And finally, a small delivery to Becky Adams’ studio where I took confession:

“Sting – Fields of Gold”

Not quite walking in fields of gold, but we venture back to the kitchen.

Door count update:
16 doors, 46 times.

Definitely time for a tea break.

The best doors are the ones with great people behind them and as I leave and wave farewell, I decide 24 Tudor Lane is a great door.

In to the city.

Car park door (x 1)
Lift door (x 1)
Shop door… (x 2 x 2 x 2)
Vivienne Westwood door (x 1)
Vivienne Westwood changing room door (x 6)
…and the better-leave-quickly-exit door (x 1)

That’s an additional 5 doors at my own expense.

Grab the hand of some good company and scurry to the arcade for tea before any more doors can find my wallet.

Sit.
Talk.
Count.
26 doors, 73 times

Starting to wonder if I’ll wear out the floor under some of these door frames.

Car park; lift; car.

An embarrassing, ‘I can’t open the petrol tank’ walk of shame into the 27^th door at the petrol station before getting back on the road to home.

The sudden realisation that I’m going to be embarking on a long commute hits, so I distract myself and wonder if you can combine, ‘opens doors’ and ‘silver lining’ to re-phrase as ‘every door has a silver lining’.

Probably not.

Car; home; kitchen; tea.
If only I had taken the initiative to count tea as well as doors…
Oh dear, one day not at a job and I’m driven to this.

Living room … to count doors.
27 doors, 88 times.
I sit with my tea and ponder my day of doors.

My favourite door at present is the glass door that divides the living room with outside. Directly behind it is an oak tree filled with birds; jays, robins, woodpeckers, wood pigeons, finches, tits and sparrows.

I think about all the doors that have led me to this one.

Smile.
And begin counting birds.

stop | edit | delete

——draw a line where you want to begin——

Chapter One

‘Every great story deserves embellishment.’

anarthia | in conversation

Busy in conversation;

transcripts from recent ‘in conversations’ at Mission Gallery, Swansea:

in conversation with Laura Edmunds

in conversation with Anna Lewis

—

the art of language, the art of communication, the art of conversation; persue with enthusiasm

speak.

Neglected all, with swift intent he goes 
The rape of

[Lucretia]

‘…the contemplation of Rothko’

“Helen Booth’s paintings are an expressive and gestural response to the Welsh Landscape. By layering and removing oil paint, Booth provides a dramatic vision of nature, reminiscent of Turner, whilst demanding the contemplation of Rothko”.  – Hannah Kelly (2008)

A busy week juggling work; too many e-mails, each deserving far more time than time itself will allow and I am contacted by the artist Helen Booth. It sent me back to curating an exhibition of Helen’s work in 2008 when through viewing the work time seemed to stand still and a space for thought was allowed. I’m delighted that this week I am given the opportunity to write about Helen’s work again, and excited about sitting down to look at her great new website:

www.helenbooth.com

I[‘m] write

I'm  [w]right[e] all the time
but, my grammar* is bad
*see also: spelling, knowledge

 

I promised to punctuate more appropriately; I even started reading a book about grammar (a book filled with pretentious, intellectual humour  – I love it).

For a fairly well-read person, I continue to sporadically throw in semicolons, misplace the full stop, use words in ways which make no sense and  structure sentences badly. It hasn’t stopped me writing; it hasn’t stopped my writing being printed. It has, however, highlighted to the public that I am a grammatically incorrect writer and for that, I apologise.

The fact of the matter is; I rather enjoy the misuse.

I haven’t started on the writing, ‘Richard’ (although I have been working on something else for the collection). 

I have started writing here too:

http://missiongallery.wordpress.com/ 

I love every day | I unashamedly love my job

 

Promise #1:

to punctuate with greater success

When we write it is important to punctuate(.) unfortunately I possess very little skill in the ability to use punctuation appropriately(.) sentences either cease to end or become short and sharp[.] To illustrate a basic level of writing.

I have come to realise that life seems to also follow this pattern. I find myself either rambling incessantly through, or I provide short sharp punctuation to end one thing and start another. I simultaneously enjoy the creative use of punctuation within both writing and life. However, in writing I achieve some level of fluidity, whereas in life, not so much.

‘turn the page’;’cross it out’;’start again’;’put a line through it’;’use the tippex’;’press delete’;’cut&paste’

Our ability for amendments within writing have progressed rapidly even within my lifetime and I find it somewhat irritating that we can not adopt these amendments within life.

I said, “…” this, I put a line through it, I turned the page, I started a new chapter;

Catch up.

But alas, it can not be! So my promise is to avid readers of life; to punctuate with perhaps no attempt at correct use, but at least with more consistency.

On another note…

Forthcoming in the collection: “Richard”

I must say it honestly, when I think of Richard it’s like Lucien Freud and Egon Schiele* have an orgy of painting in my head.

Unexplainable even to me.

—

*the artist not the tortoise (obviously)

se.cret [see-krit]

It’s appropriate to categorise this as ‘superfluous’ as I’ve already written everything I need to say. That is to say I wrote it in secret away from the prying eyes of those who see.read.follow. I adore the scratch of writing and turned to pen and paper for hours and days of endless words.

For days I read the words of others; blogs; your blogs; news-feeds; all creating a public facing facade for our lives.

Like it or not I became irritated by those who fictionalise their lives, those who glamorise their existence and those who try desperately to over emphasise their well researched knowledge.

(nota bene [sic] that is not to say I am not guilty of this nor that I am tarnishing all with my broad brush of criticism)

A push towards my abandonment of ‘the blog’ was when I was mis-quoted by a blogger who’s memory clearly served them poorly.
It wasn’t that I had become deeply traumatised by this error, it was simply that it highlighted to me how easily this can occur.

This teamed with a recent magazine article claiming to be an interview between journalist and artist but in actual fact word for word uplifting of my work led me to question the use of ‘the blog’ and it’s implications regarding the privacy of person/s.

What belongs to us; our written words, our spoken words.

Do we have the right to repeat some of the things we know about another person?

Should each conversation we partake in begin and end in a disclaimer?

I recently (approx. 2 months ago) discovered a secret regarding a significant artist. A significant secret for a significant artist. I was neither in search nor expectant of the knowledge but, when it arrived to me I was overwhelmed and 99% sure no one else was/is aware of its existence. It’s a key to how the work should be viewed and how the artist should be perceived. It would mean a lot to many collectors and enthusiasts of the work / artist in question. The secret is pure, non-fictionalised, unpretentious. It’s a simple, basic insight in to a deeply intriguing life.
‘Perfect!’ I thought upon it’s discovery, ‘my next artist for the collection’. But during the drafting came the mis-quotation and the theft of my work, and I began to think twice.

I wrote in pen on brown paper in basic, simple language to be interpreted by all levels of understanding.

I’ve poured myself into reading biography after biography, but still question:

What right do we have to repeat what we know about others?
What are the boundaries of moral obligation?

Title: se.cret [see-krit]
Author: Hannah Kelly
Text: privacy.private.mine.secret.confidential.copyright.
Images: supplied by the reader

–unfinished– history

Books;

that make the spines of students curl as they trudge home with words of history on their back;

we’re still living in their pages

–unfinished–

*delete as applicable

*Delete as applicable

 

My web presence gets renewed / updated / altered* on a daily / weekly / monthly* basis. I wonder how many minutes / hours / days* of my life I might spend on perfecting / altering / deleting* what people know / don’t know / shouldn’t know* about me. I wonder who cares / spies / checks* what I’m doing in my personal / professional / private* life. How their perception / opinion / respect* might alter after one status / blog / photo* all on a daily / weekly / monthly* basis; so I renew / update … delete –

 

Hannah Kelly*

The Curious World of Becky Adams

A Collector of Stories

Becky Adams is a collector of stories; they become an integral part of her life and are ingrained into the making of her work through a sophisticated use of stitch, vintage fabric and antique ephemera.

– Hannah Kelly, 2010

It is not with irony that I should begin my own collection of stories by reflecting on the essay written for, The Curious World of Becky Adams; a touring exhibition from Llantarnam Grange Arts Centre and Ruthin Craft Centre. Both Becky and I are collectors in our own right. Sharing mutual support and encouragement for the development of our practice.

Writing the Curious World of Becky Adams led to the reason for my blog;

An investigation, without assumption or agenda, to present the life behind the art.

Just as Frida Kahlo is often as admired for her strength in life as she is for her art, I have great admiration for the artists I have the pleasure of knowing. Through curation I am able to present the art and through writing I am able to present an insight into the artist.

Through a considered and quiet approach, the artist Becky Adams will never cease to leave me feeling full of confidence and enthusiasm.

The following is an excerpt from the publication Becky Adams;

One afternoon in Penarth, Becky recalled her love of the pier and the aviary, ‘it is a very Victorian place and I think I may have a very Victorian soul, with a love of the miniature and collecting things’. Becky continued with the presentation of her story, revealing her aptitude for creative writing: ‘Evangelina Clementine was a strange and beautiful girl. Her heart often skipped a beat and resembled a small caged bird. Her skin was as pale as snow and her eyes were dark and limpid. In order to monitor her heartbeats, she always carried with her a silver pocket watch and a metronome. Favourite haunts include the pier, the aviary in the park and a curious shop full of dusty books and glass topped boxes. One day she vanished and was seen no more. This is the tale of her mysterious demise.’

Evangelina Clementine is presented in the home of Becky Adams as though she were the single most important artefact of this exquisite museum.  A beauty protected under a small glass bell, Evangelina is the rescued torso of a beautiful white ceramic miniature. Perhaps Evangelina Clementine is the librarian of Mobile Library, or perhaps she is the beautiful fictionalisation of the artist, Becky Adams.

– Hannah Kelly, 2010

The Curious World of Becky Adams is being presented at Mission Gallery, Swansea 2nd April – 22nd May 2011