may day and a man

Today, May 1st, a walk beckoned to loosen up stiff limbs from days sitting in cars, sitting at desks, sitting doing drawings on screen, sitting . . . although a session of  stretching in a yoga class was helpful last night.  A walk to the The Long Man at Wilmington was an attractive idea that quickly evolved into a necessity.  This man is a landmark clearly visible from the road and the train that connects Eastbourne to Brighton. He’s also called the Giant and the Green Man and, is thought to be from the Iron Age or neolithic period, but is most likely 16th or 17th C.  On the journey from the village  to the point where the visitor can climb up gradually to his feet, he plays the game of hiding and then being revealed.

Eric Ravilious painted this view in water colours at the start of the 2nd war. Interesting to read his fascination with chalk figures.

At  70m in length, so the height of 40 men, but with no visible baggage. Is he a eunuch? I’m afraid I got a little bored with him especially on discovering that he isn’t made from chalk at all but from concrete blocks  . . .  .   and turned to look about to the surrounding views but thought how lucky he is to see these views all of the time.

Stunning wind swept hawthorns litter the Downs here and reminded me of a painting by Harold Mockford,  ‘Asleep on the Downs’, which is the last thing I see at night and the first thing I see in the morning.

Primroses and wild violets carpet the tufty grassy surface we walk on and skylarks swoop in pairs above our heads . . .

. . . .  towards Newhaven, where Harold  lives, a rather interesting pincer movement of landscape features swirl around the rising land and,  just turning to Birling Gap, the White Horse becomes visible.

Tumuli and chalk pits provide the ups and the downs of this landscape occupied by the ‘locals’ .

Before the crops fully vegetate, the strong echoing lines of the machine rolling over the landscape are still visible . . . .

. .  chalk and flint, the indigenous materials of  The Sussex Downs.

When I walk up on the downs

I think of things you nearly said.

Skylarks broke through the cloudless skies,

bristly oxtongue snared my boots.

I’m sorry that I went away.

 In the grass which we had flattened

purple clover kissed wild thyme.

I looked at you. You had not spoken

chalk and wind and sea blown words.

Untroubled plantain gazed at us,

salad burnet, hurt, eyebright.

We could make it work this time.

 Only mouse-ears heard the things,

high on the downs, you early said. Pam Hughes. Whispers

texture – colour – weight – narrative – nature – intimate – shadows

art gallery – shop – discreet – space – light – colour. A few words noted whilst waiting in the lobby. The lift in the Towner Gallery  – try it out  – is a good experience. When you exit on the 2nd floor, this is the view to the west. A sky that resonates with me. Resonates as has a feeling of some skies painted by Harold Mockford.

What to say about this exhibition? Excellently hung and fulsome. What to say about the work? Words are just meaningless and images from the web are also unsatisfactory so my thought was to include poems by Pam Hughes ‘reflecting the friendship and mutual inspiration that they have taken from the Sussex landscape’ (Shadows on the Downs).  Harold paints from memory and, I believe, that’s the spark. By inviting the viewer to be involved as a bystander in the composition it’s possible to engage with his imagination. He’s good at green too which is rare.    

   

A few images to follow that were not in the exhibition. Below ‘Refugees’ . . .

Cast a way, a drift, a shadow,

die and death, a part, a light.

An eye, a vote, a shoe upon

the path I fled in mud strewn fright.

 Lullaby the watchful spirits,

etch your name inside my heart.

Scramble through the goats’ hooved

spiked tussocks. Melt the past

with tears through karst.

 Summer draws all memories from me

as my thoughts stretch into words.

Unravelled by a gentle touch,

a word, a smell, I make a map

 from buried fragments. Plunge

into flaming collage, searching

words and tastes and sound.

Anything that will remember

you and me for ever bound     Pam Hughes  Song of a Refugee (for Anne Michaels)

Fallen Angel above and Asleep on the Downs below.  Note the sky. The only reason that I regret not being in the UK now  is not being able to revisit and revisit. A few words noted whilst waiting in the lobby:  texture – colour – weight – narrative – nature – intimate – shadows.

When I walk up on the downs

I think of things you nearly said.

 Skylarks broke through the cloudless skies,

bristly oxtongue snared my boots.

I’m sorry that I went away.

In the grass which we had flattened

purple clover kissed wild thyme.

I looked at you. You had not spoken

chalk and wind and sea-blown worlds.

 Untroubled plantain gazed at us,

salad burnet, hurt, eyebright.

We could make it work this time.

Only mouse-ears heard the things,

high on the downs, you nearly said.  Pam Hughes  Whispers