Seaside Soul

I came across all these photos today, taken on a trip not so long ago to Hastings. Inspiration can be found in abundance on the beach where the fishermen moor their boats. The tangled nets and colourful peeling paint, the dead fish and chalk board menu's. And there is always colour on the greyest of days. It has always inspired me in its tones and textures, in its man meets nature way.

It is little wonder that local artists such as Annie Soudain find their inspiration here and in the surrounding area. Her beautiful prints echo all that nature has to offer.

This seaside place has soul but you have to stray off the pavement and meander through the fishing huts and alongside the boats to really take it in; and don't forget to visit The Fishermen's Museum to really capture the history of the place. 

I dare you not to be inspired. Go on "Seas the day!"

From Russia with Love

I used to travel a lot. My last truly "me" trip was one to St.Petersburg in Russia. When my husband announced that he was off to the former Soviet Union, I quickly jumped on the bandwagon and uttered the words "if you think you're going there without me then think again". He saw sense and I tagged along with him and his work colleagues.

You see, when part of your genetic make-up comes from somewhere, it has a sort of inbuilt homing device which creates this desire to return. Technically the part of Russia my family is from was part of Poland when my father was born but it now lies just across the border in Belarus, the Russians having reclaimed it. Still, I needed to see what, if any, characteristics I had retained from my Slavic ancestry.

As a destination for an art lover/culture vulture, St.Petersburg is delightful. It is not surprising that the Russian royalty chose to live here. 

Two must sees on the art trail are without doubt The Hermitage and The Russian Museum. The sheer scale of the former is breathtaking. Opulent. Extravagant.

But, I fell in love with the charm of what lay within the latter; especially the folk art. That I connected with. That was my heritage.

From the beauty of simple woodblock print textiles in colours of the earth and woods.

To the painted wooden panels in rich shades of reds and ochres.

























I came across a door. Painted so honestly. I wondered if my grandmother had had such a painted door leading into her farmhouse.

I have no photographs of my grandmother, just a vague imagined image in my head and a knowledge that she was incredibly brave. She was shot during the war for hiding Jewish children; having already had her family (my father) taken from her and sent to Siberia. But there in the museum in front of the painterly images of peasant girls in their dress, I got a feel for her, her life and what it was to be a country peasant girl.

Art reminds us, informs us and captures a way of looking at things. It encompasses everyday beauty and is a record, for those of us who have no knowledge, of what life was like for people who are part of our heritage and make-up. 

The only thing I have from my grandmother is a piece of embroidery. The textiles thing again. My father revisited Belarus, only once, and his Aunt gave him an embroidered tablecloth with a crocheted edge that had been my grandmothers. She probably would have made it for her bottom drawer.

Looking around The Russian Museum, I felt closer to her. And this was the magic of Russia for me. A glimpse into life as she had known it, in simpler, happier times. 

Crafting Credentials

I learnt to sew before I was even seven. We were a hand-picked group of 3-4 girls who every friday traversed the churchyard from our little village school to the Old Post Office Cottage set on its edge. You can just see its little roof peeping out from behind the church. We duly paid our 40p to Mrs. Hinton; who then embarked on teaching us all she knew. It always felt like stepping back in time when we entered her house.

Old Postcard of Speldhurst Church

In the Summer she would open the front door with a view over the tombstones and the giant yew and we would sew and chatter on the front step. In the winter we would sit in the tiny kitchen huddled around the old pine table.

Old Post Office Cottage, Speldhurst

Mrs. Hinton was an expert. She worked on all the tapestry church kneelers, made the embroidered banners and her attention to detail was unrivalled. She knew everything about sewing and I can remember her sitting with her grey hair in a bun and her silver thimble on her finger berating us for not concentrating or chattering too much.

Smocking diagram from 'Educational Needlecraft'

For it was there in the parlour of her 18th century cottage, with the view over the churchyard , that I learnt everything possible: to sew; to smock; the tapestry art of bargello; of embroidery and how to manoeuvre a sewing machine. 

Example of Bargello work  from pigtown-design.blogspot.co.uk

We would rifle through her box of wool offcuts from the carpet manufacturers, choosing each tone and hue very carefully. Here I fell in love with colour and discovered just how much I love the process of selecting and putting colours together to form a palette.

And at age 7 & 3/4's I made my first skirt. I vividly remember running home that day, up the hill, in my new skirt, laughing and asking my mum if she noticed anything different about me. For this was a crafting rite of passage.

I don't know where said skirt is but myself and Katya, a fellow student, often reminisce about our early creations. My mum had chosen a peach floral from C&H Fabrics with matching thread but I secretly coveted Katya's jumble sale find; a deep scarlet red with tiny black polka dots. And it turns out, I discovered years later, she coveted mine.

I never forgot Mrs.Hinton. In her 90th year, a short time before she died, I wrote to her; to thank her. Then, freshly graduated, with a First class honours degree in Textile Design from Chelsea; I felt I owed her a lot of the credit. Her patience, knowledge and her ability to instil in a group of giggling girls a lifetime love affair with textiles, craft and the handmade was a priceless gift. She wrote back to say how proud she was. I am so glad I wrote that letter.

Tins, tins and more tins.

I love a good old rusty, dented tin and so it seems do a lot of you. So much more a glamorous receptacle for storing things in than a plastic box. Tins have been the ultimate in recycled packaging for a long time now; one of the first biscuit tins being designed for Huntley and Palmers in the 1860's.  People hold on to them, many ending up in sheds or lurking in attics stuffed with rusting nails or old buttons.

One of my favourite tins is one that I found in my grandmothers bedside drawer and in it were all manner of things that had been special to her. 

Ribbons from First communions tucked around pendants of the Virgin Mary. Rites of passage in a tin, carefully folded. I put it back in its drawer. There to stay.

Tins were often given as gifts with toffees or biscuits contained within, taken abroad to family members to remind them of home or as souvenirs. Their decoration has included everything from works of art to cartoon characters, budgies to kingfishers, rural scenes to kitsch photographs of floral arrangements.

I love nothing more than coming across a great big haul of tins in all shapes and sizes. Someone's collection, often with items still contained within.

Imagine my immense joy on purchasing all of these on a recent forage. Some were rusted shut. One had a shilling and a two-shilling coin nestled within.

One was filled with never used bandages still in their original 1950's packaging, for a never occurring emergency, but just in case.

One had neatly folded plastic shoulder guards to protect ladies clothes whilst washing their hair, together with a knitted hair cowl.

All kept in tins. Hidden away. To be opened again like a treasure chest on someones passing.