Gathering raindrops, gathering thoughts
and gratitude for the life of my very first teacher
Konnichiwa, friends
It’s a wet late Autumn morning here in Aomori, Japan, where I am spending a month as artist-in-residence. Outside my room’s big window, curtains of heavy, drenching rain falls in downpours that swell, then ease, then swell again. The drips, drops, gushes, splashes, plashes, and patters crescendo and diminish, but never quite go slient. Sudden gusts send blizzards of red-gold leaves tumbling from the trees, leaving bare black branches glossed with wet and every twig beaded with pearls of rain.
I am a bit homesick right now. My oldest, dear friend, whom I’ve known since we were babies, just let me know that her mother has died, a remarkable, big-hearted woman who was a huge part of my life too, for as long as I can remember. It pains me to be so far away that I can’t make it to her funeral, can’t be there to comfort my friend in her loss.
The bright edge of newness has worn off of here a little, but it doesn’t yet have the ease of familiarity, the comfort of home, the company of loved ones and old friends.
There is always, however, another kind of home, one I can take with me wherever I go. It’s this home that has always sustained me, for as long as I can remember. It’s the home of making, of drawing, of the welcoming space that our creativity makes for us.
This week has been one of quiet focus. With barely two weeks from my arrival to prepare an exhibition, a workshop and an artists’ talk, there hasn’t been much time for anything else. But that’s the nature of this work. What audiences see are the polished results, but not the long, quiet days grafting in the studio or the hours spent in front of the laptop, all the steady and unglamorous day-to-day of actually making art happen.
But that day-to-day, if anything, is my real home. I might be far from my loved ones but, after forty years in this art-making game, there is deep comfort to be found in the studio, even when it’s challenging and bound to a tight deadline. And there is the companionship of my fellow resident artists, who have also been working hard this last week. Our cultures and languages may differ, but there is an easy fellowship among us, as we all ride this wave together.
Bit by bit, the pieces are dropping into place. Materials are sourced, texts are drafted and finalised, slides prepared, admin tasks completed, assistance offered and welcomed; Yuuji, the energetic technican and an artist in his own right, has built me an enormous table to draw at in the gallery. Tomo, the curator who is working with me, has taught me a few phrases in Japanese to cajole visitors into drawing along with me: Issho ni e o kakimasen ka? Kantan desu! I feel very well supported.
It will all, hopefully, coalesce in the second half of this week when the gears will shift again, the exhibition will open on Friday, and from then I’ll be working in the gallery space in the city of Aomori itself.
Meantime, Confluence has grown in length and now cascades from the end of the long workbench. It’s ready for the class of sixteen high school students who will join me to help expand its flow further on Thursday, then it will to go into the gallery the next day.
And my little collection of water samples that I brought from Orkney now includes a sample of Aomori forest rain, collected on my behalf this morning by a big fallen leaf on the footpath. I’ll be gathering more water samples from visitors throughout the exhibition.
But in amongst all the busy activity, there are also moments to reflect and absorb.
For now, I’ll pause and watch the rain awhile, and think of Auntie Ann.
In loving memory of Auntie Ann, my very first teacher in nursery school and lifelong friend, who led my baby steps into the world of words, of reading and writing, and cheered on every step I’ve taken since then. Her big, toothy smile will always light my heart, her booming laughter always ring in my ears. Her legacy lights every word I write, every drawing I make. In deep gratitude for having had her in my life. Go well, Auntie Ann.
May your heartfelt tears for Auntie Ann be a further source of water for your collection. How fitting. Sending love across the miles. We life-rafters miss you too, but are inspired by your travels and new adventures.
Thank you so much for sharing your experience in being so far from home and expressing the loss of someone close to you. And for the shot of your amazing piece of art in progress--stunningly beautiful. You are an inspiration for so many of us. I am in my nineties and can say that the interest in creating has sustained me through many rough times. There is just too much beauty in the world to discover--it constantly revives the spirits doesn't it?
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