This was my second summer spent as a resident at Porthmeor Studios in St Ives, Cornwall, a complex of stone and timber from the 1800s, on the choppy coast of Cornwall. You are surrounded by the sea and completely unreal sunsets. I remember when I went last year, it felt so unfamiliar. This time, it felt like a homecoming in some ways. The first time I was here, it was all about discovering something “outside”, whereas this summer, it felt a lot more quiet and like a space for reflection and a search for something within myself.
It’s quite a daunting experience when you’re in a new space where you don’t know many people. However with time, I found a wonderful sense of community and lifelong friendships. The Studios have housed so many painters I admire — Patrick Heron, Ben Nicholson and Lubaina Himid; I even left my initials, in small handwriting, on the wall. I worked endless hours in Studio 5 and realised I’m the kind of painter who really thrives in periods of isolation. The studio became a space where I was processing all that is happening within and outside of myself.
I would often take walks on the beach looking at the sunset, barely looking at my phone. I leaned into the isolation, I took night walks. St Ives is a unique creature in its own way too, I haven’t really come across many places where I can walk freely at night, look at the moonlight bouncing off the sea.
“It was strange, I dreamt of a strange octopus that found its way into one of the paintings.”
I was preparing for my second solo show with Indigo+Madder and there was one all encompassing painting I wanted to make there. At the same time I was exchanging notes on painting with another artist, reflecting upon our practices and strangely enough, fears of studios catching on fire. (I did not light the fireplace once).
I remember one night there was a thunderstorm. I decided to work late that night and all I could hear was the sound of the wind and rain. All I could think about was the sea, oddly enough, and I imagined what the waves looked like outside.. It’s dark and stormy; it should be unsettling, I know, but when you’re in a studio you long for the sound of something. Once the storm had passed I walked back home and I wish I could describe the blue haze that was left behind in the sky; words probably won’t do it justice.
That 5 minute walk felt like an hour because I kept stopping to see whether what I was seeing around me was real. A writer and close friend had shared some music by Mark Fisher called On Vanishing Land. I played it that evening, on my walk back home. It sounds like what I’m trying to articulate. I can hear that sound play again in my head when I start to reminisce about last summer.
London, 27th September 2024