Everything Not Given Is Lost

I receive a fair few DMs on Instagram from men I haven’t met. The vast majority of these are destined for the bin, because they start with “hello pretty lady you are pretty” and while that’s flattering, I just don’t see a future for us. The messages usually stop there, as the sender can’t think of anything else to add, or they are block-messaging every lady in the whole world, and are trying to be efficient. Either way, I read all my messages, because it’s polite to do so – and besides, it’s a legitimate means of getting in touch, no matter who you are.

One such message last week came from a man from the far side of the world. He told me he was in Galway for a few days: he knew it was a long shot, but he said his wife was a massive fan of mine – she has my books and a few other things – and he wanted to know if we could meet. His wife didn’t know he was going to ask, in case I couldn’t, but he knew how much it would mean to her. My stony heart was moved. I usually politely decline requests to meet, as there are more productive things I could be doing (but probably won’t). This time I agreed, because the man was very polite, and because he wanted to surprise his wife, and besides I would be in the city with my husband Marcel the following day anyway, and we would need to stop for coffee somewhere so it may as well be with this man.

I met the man in a hotel on Eyre Square – we’ll call him Stephen – and Marcel joined us a few minutes later when he’d parked the car. The man told us his background, and about how his wife had come across me online somewhere. Like me, she was a person for whom art had been an all-consuming, lifelong obsession. Like me, she was frustrated and despairing because she felt blocked in some way. Like me, she had had to make peace with the fact that she may well be continuing her search for her mojo until her deathbed, with no guarantee of success. But, like me, she stumbled across a person who changed her life. My life-changing person was Danny Gregory, back in 2012, in Mauritius. This lady’s was…me.

She liked my style, and then she read the words I wrote, and she liked those. She began to use the sketching tools I use, and see value in the simple, everyday subjects I choose to depict – she lives in a place where it’s unsafe to walk around outdoors – and she had a breakthrough. She found that the fude pen and the wonderful inks I use were just right, exactly right for her to express her thing. She makes beautiful drawings of interiors, full of soul and confident skill. It is immediately clear from her work that she has found her mojo.

As Marcel and I left I had the strangest feeling, one of arrival. Not in the commonly understood way, of taking my place on a world stage, but more that I have arrived right back where I started. I have come full circle, except rather than being on the outside of this circle looking in, I am on the inside looking out. I am now in the incredibly privileged position of passing on the baton.

Sharing Is Caring

I was, and remain, a fan of Posy Simmonds. In 2002 I sent her an email to ask her what she used to draw. I was sure if I had that tool I would draw like her. She was good enough to write back. Posy Simmonds! (She said that she used anything at all, and particularly liked nearly-wasted felt-tip pens. I found that astonishing. Of course the truth is that she draw all the time for years, and drew what she saw, and became amazing that way, but I hadn’t asked her how she got so good.) If the genius Posy Simmonds shared her knowledge so magnanimously with me, then I must do likewise.

Years ago I heard someone say that the secret to happiness is to make others happy. It’s true. Why don’t they tell you that at school? They use words like “rewarding” and “satisfying” but they never say “you want a happy life? Share whatever you can with others and you’ll have a happy life.” Another saying I heard a while ago is “everything not given is lost.” So I have started my fourth book – something that might increase the chances of changing the lives of more people. That might sound presumptuous but I am trying not to care – if you worried about that, you’d never extend a useful word of advice to anyone.

Simple, Everyday Subjects, In Blues And Browns

I have more to say but I had better save it for the pages of my book! Otherwise I will be at risk of spitting out half-formed thoughts, and that would be a shame. So instead I will tell you a little about the drawings that have made their way into my sketchbook this last week.

I had one double page left at the back of my book, and one of those pages is stuck to the back, so it’s not optimal for sketching. That’s a nice position to start from, because you feel relaxed about whatever you’re going to put there.

I have been feeling extremely stiff of joint lately, which is probably not unconnected with my age. I am most unhappy about this. Getting up from a long sketching session can be tricky, especially if I’ve been sitting on the ground with my legs tucked underneath my body as if I were still a maid. It won’t do! I wondered if yoga would help, but the only place that I can really call my own in my house is my studio. It was cluttered with all kinds of things that weren’t earning their space, so I culled or tidied away lots of it and moved my beautfiul Turkish rug to the new floor space. I wanted to mark this moment as symbolic of trying to look after my health better, and the last two pages in my sketchbook were the ideal location for it.

I used Frieda Sketch ink by Rohrer & Klingner, which is a lovely Payne’s Grey kind of colour. Then I used a palette of three or four colours from my Special Edition Supergranulating Watercolours by Schmincke to paint it. I left out any green for the grass outside my window, because I was being strict with my palette.

I liked the effect of the dark blue ink and supergranulating colours so much that I sketched the living room coffee table as Marcel and I watched a show on TV. It’s in Portuguese and sketching meant I could no longer look at the subtitles, as I was looking down all the time. But I started learning Portuguese about six years ago (for about a year) and I found that just listening to the sounds rather than reading the screen helped the words make sense. I think I will find a show in Italian, which is a language I want to become fluent in, and do the same. There are a couple of shows I’ve watched. For example Mamma Mia, with Toni Colette, is silly beyond belief, but the plot is so obvious that you could watch it in Ancient Aramaic and you’d be fine. I am sure I will find more movies along those lines, so I might end up with a great many drawings of the table in my living room. Maybe I will put a bowl of flowers in the centre..

The Ice House

Still on a kick with the dark blue ink and the supergranulating colours I walked down the road on the first dry day we’d had in weeks with Reuben, our small fluffy terrier, to sketch this adorable little cottage. Shortly after I arrived I rang a good friend looking for words of solace, as Marcel had managed to fly into Dubai during the worst rain- and thunderstorm for 75 years, and I hadn’t heard a peep. My friend is married to a man who travels extensively for work, so I figured she’d be able to reassure me. She did. Then it turned out that my friend knows lots about this house. She told me there’s an ice house built beside it; it appears that in the 18th century, peasants would climb mountains to fetch ice, wrap it in straw and take it down, whence it would be stored in these underground houses. They would be accessed via steps. My friend encouraged me to knock on the door and ask for a tour, but I didn’t quite have the nerve.

I really enjoyed being out in the bright sunshine after so long indoors, but the air temperature was icy…were I an 18th-century peasant, I could have left the ice right there where I was standing and it would be fine. Reuben stood in the ivy on top of the wall behind me for the duration of the sketch – the advantages of a tiny dog are legion – but in balancing him there I dropped my fude pen lid, which is exactly the same colour as the grassy verge where I stood, and tore my hands to ribbons, and studded them with thorns and splinters, trying to find it. I used my Sketchpocket and successfully and easily did everything standing up, painting and all. Then when I was done, I walked Reuben home and spent twenty minutes trying to coax my hands back to life with warm water. I have severe Raynaud’s phenomenom and it is MOST inconvenient to live and work as a sketcher in Ireland.

Embrace Being Good At Stuff

Back to that book that is now underway. As I mentioned earlier, part of me feels like I am being big-headed in speaking freely about wanting to pass on my skill. But you can’t be too self-effacing as a teacher: set yourself up as someone who can teach, as someone who knows more about a subject than the person coming for help, and you’re automatically saying that you know stuff. Can’t be helped. Being female means dancing around openly asserting your excellence on a topic and yes, it does make me feel a little uncomfortable to claim my status as a teacher (and totally untrained, to boot). But there you have it!

So here goes. Sketching changed my life. I hope it changes someone else’s life too.