Back from England! Part I

 

Faversham!

Hello, Everyone! The last time I posted it was about my art-retreat journey to France and the artwork I did (and didn't do) there. Several months later I'm now back in Albuquerque after a seven-week visit to England where I stayed in Faversham on the southeast coast. 

 

 

Although I confined my stay to a town the size of a bread box, I managed to do so much that a single post won't cover it all. With that in mind, I'll be writing some future posts about not only what I painted during my visit, but also about starting a brand new manuscript inspired by my surroundings. So please consider this current entry as a general overview of what got me motivated to "stay creative every day" and how much fun I had discovering that same motivation.

 

Returning to Albuquerque during the holiday season gave me plenty of time to regroup and go through the pages and pages of manuscript and sketchbook studies I brought back along with three new sweaters and a set of the best drawing pencils I've ever owned (roughly the equivalent of $5.00 from the discount store. Go figure.). It also gave me some time to think about how on earth I had the fortitude to make such a lengthy and productive journey.

The only explanation I can come up with is that in the three years since my husband died I've encountered so many challenges related to loss and grief I've become much braver than I ever could have imagined. Going to France only weeks before leaving for the UK was another confidence-builder. Admittedly, staying in a French art retreat was hardly a grueling test of will-power and determination (other than surviving for nine days without my luggage). Instead, I traveled with a group, many of whom were friends I already knew, and our days were exquisitely pre-planned with food, transport, sightseeing, and art instruction served on a plate, usually with a glass of wine.

This latest trip to England, on the other hand, couldn't have been more different, and that was exactly how I wanted it. Apart from the freezing cold and having to constantly boil kettle after kettle whether for filling the hot water bottle I carried close to my chest like a beloved pet, or for making endless cups of tea just to wrap my hands around the cup for the warmth alone (drove me nuts, people. Drove me nuts.) I learned I could, well, cope and even be happy about. Good thing, too, because it wasn't the weather alone or never quite understanding the recycling system that forced me into a learning curve. I had to learn to not leave the house without an umbrella or my own shopping bag. 

My Halloween-themed bag I wanted to use every day! Boo!

I had to learn to accept and not go on and on and on about the weather (or at least no more than anyone else), or about never seeing the sun or never being warm enough to sketch outdoors. I had to learn to cross roads without pedestrian markings and never being certain which direction the British "wrong side of the road" traffic would be coming from (impossible for someone who when told to turn left turns right).

I had to get used to near-daily food shopping because my very-typical under-the-counter refrigerator couldn't hold more than six eggs and a cauliflower, and I particularly had to get used to not having access to a clothes dryer because there weren't any. In the end and more than anything else, I simply learned to be resourceful--the most British trait of all! Even on the rare occasions when I was consumed by homesickness: "England is such hard work! It's so cold! My clothes won't dry! Why is the sky so dark? I wanna go home!" had me laughing at the absurdity of my situation and looking for a solution, e.g., wear more clothes! That, and speed dry them with my hair dryer.

And once my fingers thawed out enough to hold a pen, I filled notebook after notebook with what felt like a wealth of material: the perpetual sound of inland seagulls crying overhead; the unexpected rumble of passing trains; the melancholy non-stop patter of rain hitting my windows; a cat slipping through its own swing door fitted into a gothic archway. Over the weeks most everything I did or saw turned into a story-line and I couldn't stop painting or writing about every piece of it, including:

1. The town being so pretty, especially at twilight (which by November arrived very early). Little medieval or Tudor shops and inns, narrow winding streets, green spaces and water in-between made every exploration memorable.  

2. Pops of color. Often I'd be walking along thinking the world couldn't get any grayer than an English afternoon when suddenly I would see a surprise burst of color. The combination of bright oranges or pinks against a moody sky gave me some interesting sketchbook ideas I'm still experimenting with.

Yes, I know the sun is out . . . lasted only a minute or two . . .

 

Quick ink and gouache sketch using a twig. (Brought indoors, of course!)

3. Coffee shops. It took me longer than I thought it would to find the English equivalent of the type of coffee shop I'm used to here in Albuquerque, one where I can sit and write without feeling I'm taking up space or staying too long. Eventually I discovered the cozy, brick-lined basement at The Refinery where I was able to get not only coffee, but toasted crumpets as well. I'll be discussing the manuscript I wrote there in another post, but I will always remember writing, writing, writing by hand and with a fountain pen in that little basement. 

 

This ISN'T The Refinery, but I like the bricks!

4. Speaking of little . . . The attic flat I rented was worthy of a novel of its own. Up several flights of stairs in a lovely Georgian home, despite its miniature size and sloped ceilings it turned out to be the perfect creative space for when I wasn't exploring coffee shops. In all honesty I was a bit tall for rooms I'm assuming once housed a much-shorter serving class, and I was in constant danger of splitting my head open like a melon. What made up for having to remember to always duck if I wanted to go through a doorway was the fact the rooms had recently been painted and refurbished and the abundance of light that came through the windows provided much-needed morale. Another benefit was being so well-situated, smack in the middle of where I wanted to be and I could go absolutely anywhere within minutes. 

The view from my bedroom.

5. If you look closely at the photo above you will see the unintentional inclusion of a dog, and my goodness, but there were a lot of dogs. Before I go any further, let me say that most people know I'm not what you'd call a "dog person," being a committed member of Team Cat, but after seeing the huge variety of beautifully groomed, well-behaved silky, fluffy, and sleek breeds parading through the streets (Whippets! Collies! Chows! Terriers! Poodles!), even I started to see the charm in owning a little oodle-doodle of some sort. Never in my life have I seen so many sophisticated animals in one square mile. 

 

Stole this off the Internet. No idea who to attribute copyright to, but thank you! Also note summer clothes: not my experience at all.

Besides mistaking the town for the Westminster Dog Show, I basically spent the vast majority of my time as I've already mentioned: writing and painting, plus visiting wonderful people (probably shaking their heads in disbelief now that I've gone: "Yes, she was very strange. Obsessed with laundry!") and walking. I did a lot of walking.

Walking, wherever I am, has been my most reliable grief "go-to" and by now I'm sure I've circumnavigated the entire globe no less than twice, all the while thinking about my husband with every step. This time as I walked through quaint and bustling streets filled with as many prams as pups, or out toward the marshes where all I could hear was the wind, I thought about how much he would have liked being there with me. I thought about how much he, being English himself, would have laughed at all the silly and surreal moments only life in Britain can provide. I thought about how many of the same places I loved he would have also enjoyed stopping in to have a drink, a conversation, a piece of cake (he loved cake!). At the same time I felt confident that going it alone was exactly what he would have wanted me to do at this point in my life, and how very proud he would have been of me for doing so.  

(OK. Not crying. It's a stuffy nose from all that cold weather. Right.)

Next post: What I painted, how I painted, and why: 

Traveling with Makeshift, Limited, and Unexpectedly Good Art Supplies. 

Here's a glimpse of what's to come. See you soon!