A Small Collection of Boxes

 

The boxes now number six - although I want to make some changes before I post the latest  on the One Hundred Boxes blog.  The last box contains a butterfly that died in the studio resting on white painted twigs (the black box above).  The box itself has a glass window and I have placed mirror card at the back of the box to catch the reflections but which looks fine in the studio but is proving problematic to photograph.  I also feel that it needs something else and am not yet sure what to add.

Serendipity seems to be at work too and I am finding boxes everywhere to use - not quite a hundred yet but getting there slowly. 

One Hundred Boxes

Lying awake last night, it seemed a really good idea to start a new blog for the Autobiographia Boxes (?!?).  I thought it would spur me into action to set a goal and see what happens along the way.  So I have entitled it One Hundred Boxes.  I may never actually reach the hundred but it should be a good way to concentrate my mind and build a body of work for this project. 

So just the boxes, notes about the size and media and keep it simple.

Altered Pages

 

At other moments I am using rescued books to see what will happen to them in my hands.  Having been quite captivated by altered books for a while, I am gathering a small collection of old hardbacks from charity shops, the greyhound rescue stall and any secondhand bookshop that practically gives away unloved tomes. 

The hardback fell away from these pages and it was impossible to make neat folds as the paper was too stiff - quite an unusual weight really.  So, it acquired this pot-bellied untidy look, the folds are quite tight and has a lovely solid feel to it.  Do not weep for the book, it was a horrendously pompous work by Thomas Carlyle. (Apologies to Carlyle fans).

Autobiographia Boxes - continued

box, gelatin print, layered acetates, pebble, silver wire, pearl

temporary home on studio shelf with graffiti fish

It's been a busy few weeks - family visits and dealing with the high summer crops of fruit and vegetables from the kitchen garden.  The studio has, as ever, taken a back seat, but I have been popping in and out when I can to continue with the Autobiographia boxes.

This box refers to childhood summers spent in Suffolk.  I was put on the train alone in Liverpool and travelled to London under the care of the guard and had taxi fare to change stations for the Saxmundham train, where my aunt would meet me and then 6 glorious weeks of freedom and a bicycle to roam seashore, marsh and countryside around Aldeburgh.  I was 11 when I first went on my own and although it is unthinkable these days, I am sure it accounts for my independence and lifelong lust for travel.

The quote comes from a biography of George Crabbe, poet of Aldeburgh born 1754.  His children thought that on his death, "...he would fade into the sea mist and disappear before our eyes."  The pebble came from that beach and I love the hole in it that has been worn away over the centuries.

A small homage to a place that will remain forever in my heart and a time when life seemed simple.