An Autobiography in Cardboard
I am the Artist in Residence with The Writers Company. Based in Wivenhoe, Essex we offer a wide range of support, courses and mentoring to writers at all stages of their careers. It was a conversation with writer and founder of the company, Petra McQueen, about the books we read as children and the power those stories still have over us as we re-discover them as adults that the idea for this work emerged.
I am an avid reader, I read to escape and to discover. Words have always inspired me and are a vital part of my practice. Through the long lockdown that heralded the start of 2021 I chose books from my childhood collection and created paper puppets from the stories conjuring spaces from card and paint for them to inhabit.
As I worked, I realised that it was my story I was telling through visiting the past, connecting my world to those imaginary places I escaped into all those years ago.
The Little Broomstick, Mary Stewart, Knight, 1973 (1971)
The Little Broomstick by Mary Stewart
The Little Broomstick by Mary Stewart was taken up by Disney but then abandoned to be released a few years ago under the name Mary and the Witch's Flower by Japan-based animation studio Studio Ponoc. As with so many films that retell much loved stories, for me, nothing can live up to the story I first read nearly 50 years ago.
I spend much time in woodlands, gathering information, drawing, writing, reflecting. Deer leave their mark throughout these spaces. I follow their paths, sometimes I hear their cough-like barks and very occasionally I am halted by a rustling and a glimpse of them stepping through the undergrowth. I feel their presence all around, like ghosts just out of sight.
‘The woods consisting of big trees set widely apart was thick with undergrowth. Trails of ivy and honeysuckle hung from the boughs; holly and elder and hazel clustered thickly between the huge trunks of oak and beech. There were ferns everywhere, and the seedling heads of foxgloves rattled as their feet struck them in passing in the darkness. It was like a jungle. They waited quite still, their eyes on the darkness of the deep wood. The rustling grew louder. It was not one person but a crowd of people or creatures approaching softly through the thick undergrowth. Ferns swished, and the dew shook down. All the scents of the woods came floating, larch and bramble-flowers and late honeysuckle, and the dark smoky scent of ivy. Then the bushes parted, and into the dim starlight, the dew shining on antlers and burnished coat stepped a big, beautiful stag. After him, delicately, trooped a score of dappled deer.’
Marianne Dreams, Catherine Storr, Puffin Books, 1964 (1958)
Marianne Dreams by Catherine Storr
Marianne Dreams is a strange story, a dreamlike tale that became the stuff of nightmares. The main character was able to control her dreams by drawing, or was it the other way around?
Reading it as an adult I have discovered a whole new layer of meaning that I have connected with. My darling Dad battled with Alzheimer’s for many years. My way of trying to understand what was happening to him was to make work and even though he died a few years ago I still feel the need to carry on. This story feels as if it is the story of my dad on so many levels. Over time it felt like my dad had become a facade, a cut out version of himself. His physical present remained, but he, as father, husband, professional, all had vanished along with his voice.
So here in this house I stand next to him, our child selves together, the future unknown.
‘I don't know, Mark said slowly. The thing is, I can't remember much at all. I don't feel as if I've always been here and never anywhere else. Or as if I'd always been, I mean, I think I used to be quite well, and I could move about all right, but I can't remember it. See, it's as if I felt I'd been ordinary and lived somewhere else for a lot of the time, but I can't think where I was, or when I was well, so it looks as if I've always been here and just imagined the other.’
The Box of Delights, John Masefield, Puffin Books, 1971 (1935)
The Box of Delights by John Masefield
The Box of Delights or When the Wolves were Running was the sequel to The Midnight Folk. A story set at Christmas that conjures up the most magical images of sleighs flying through the starry skies pulled by lions and unicorns; of Herne the Hunter in his wild wood; of forests full of giant trees with stars in their boughs; and of course, the wolves that run through the pages eventually turning into a pack of tiny motor cars with dazzling headlights.
Over the past few years, I have spent many days in Staverton Thicks, an ancient woodland in Suffolk. Stepping in amongst the trees you are surrounded by a chaotic riot of ancient oaks at every stage of life, towering hollies offering support to fallen and dying trees, graffitied rowans hung with clusters of bright red berries. Hollowed out oak trunks present doorways into other worlds. A place of magic where it is easy to believe that anything could happen.
‘Near this, to the right, was an oak of great age, which Kay had always called King Charles's oak and the country people call the She Oak. It was hollow with age, but the mighty shell was alive still.
‘There are the Wolves,’ she said. ‘Look.’
There in the moonlight, racing over the grass to them, were the Wolves in pack, with their ruffs up and their eyes glaring. The oak tree opened behind Kay, the woman stepped within it drawing Kay with her. Instantly they were within the quiet of the tree, in a room panelled with living oak wood, and hung with tapestries of oak leave, in which the birds were alive.’