Royal Drawing School, London, September 2022
The Quickening: Figure on the Verge
The title is both metaphor and descriptive. Originally ‘quicken’ meant to make alive, to vivify. It described the instant when a pregnant woman first felt fluttering in her womb. I want a feeling of motion, of energy emanating from within. Something is unsettled and vulnerable. The usual meaning is also apt. ’Quickening’ means speeding up. Think of running. Running is a controlled fall. Without deliberately leaning forward–off-balance–you cannot run. In all creative work, whether making art or a garden, you run the risk of falling. Nor is the work ever finished. I want now to focus on larger works, stripped to the essence of form and motion. And wherein, for me, lies the heart of the matter at hand.
Process I begin not knowing what I want to do. The muddle makes me anxious. Out of chaos, sooner or later, an idea bobs to the surface. I draw. Quick and rudimentary, sketching helps connect an image in my head with my hands. Drawing for me is difficult and necessary. Then I cannot wait to get my hands on clay or wax, which is deliciously tactile and three dimensional. In this inert stuff lives all possibilities. It’s thrilling to start with a lump of clay and an idea. Kneading clay is pure play. A few quick strokes, the lump starts to take on life. What could be more primal?
Materials The love affair does not last. Whether clay or wax, every material has its limitations. The qualities I adored at the beginning become frustrating. Water-based clay is lusciously pliable. When dry, it shrinks and cracks. Plastilina softens in warm hands and never hardens completely. Overworking is ever so tempting, which risks killing the spark the work had at the start. Wax also softens with warmth. If the wax becomes too warm, it’s like modeling in chewing gum. But cold wax is a rock. I keep a hair dryer at my side.
Focus How do I know when the work is finished? I don’t. How I see my work reflects only the mood of the moment and brain chatter. At a certain point, I lose all perspective—a problem of forest and trees. But while I work, once the inner cacophony quiets down, I am completely drawn into the process. I am free of Time and the Prison of the Self. Instead of feeling, at 74, that I’m running out of time, I feel liberated from time. Secret joy is reason enough to get on with it.
Photo by Greg Wode