Reflections of the River Urr, in all the weathers of winter.
This is an ongoing series of work from in a specific place on the bank of the river. It is born out of an interest of place and relationship, the effects of spending a lot of time rooted to a particular spot. The River Urr flows right past the village and within a mile or two opens out into the sea. I’m increasingly drawn to spending time beside it and to creating series of work, both in art and writing, in direct response to particular parts of the river. The work here is from the part of the riverbank where I was drawn to this winter past and the results of which will from my latest ‘place’ book. All that follows was made by the water in all manner of weather conditions, snow, freezing wind and rain all included, and to the accompaniment of all the birds who are to be found there. The artwork was made using inks from plants growing along the river and gorse charcoal working onto paper from my Sketchbook and then left out exposed to the winter conditions.
The name 'Urr' is from Cumbric for 'a border, boundary, limit'
Below are a few extracts from what will be a small book of the work that was created. The artworks are how they looked once returning home and letting them dry out and the accompanying words were also written in place as a direct reponse to my time there.
Reflections in deep winter by the river.
This withdrawing day
Colour sapped and ashen bone grey
I step out with a wish to be enveloped
between the blackened trunks
stark with the absence of definition
Seeming so entirley sunk into themselves
against the swallowing sky
Today is a grey luminous cloth
pinned from one hill to another
I try to slowly accept the invitation
As a ripple of rain crosses the dark pool of my mind
Time itself feels entranced
Only a slight ebb in movelessness
We flail into the darkenesses
as memory empties
Out in the open the weather’s sweeping in
Sleet on the saddened boughs
of broken trees
suspended in the pale effort of remaining light
like the bones of ships
taken in some long ago storm.
Ghosts amble on the boundaries
past thickets of blackthorn
infused with the sharpened scent of soaking wood
unsteady progress across the margins
Slow drum, carriers of story
In which everything is held
between radiance and immemorial loss
Who were we?
Who were we?
What might we become?
