#thesketchbusker

[airiejynx]

#beermatface #beer #pub #moment #sketches #thesketchbusker

[airiejynx]

Flaneur; A continued reality

It's 23 Jan '15.

On the 4th Dec '14, on the 6 year anniversary of my Grandad's death, from a ruptured aneurysm, I got a call from Addenbrookes Hospital telling me that the thing in my head was not a tumour, but an aneurysm. After 3 cancellations, and weeks of waiting, I was finally operated on on the 24th Dec '14. Yes, on Christmas Eve. 

Friends came to visit, including Christmas day, but I was so drugged up the whole day floated by like a unicorn riding a fluffy cloud... 

I stayed in hospital until 29th Dec '14, when I was finally allowed home.

There are so many experiences - good and bad that I could linger on and describe to the second, however I am so bored of regurgitating the same information over and over to each person that thinks they are the first to ask, that I'd rather concentrate on now.. as me. 

Me.

Who am I?

Am I the same person? 

My concentration and short term memory are buggered, aspects of my personality that were once imperative. 

What makes me the same person? The thoughts in my head? My face? The way I hug?

I am curious. 

I was terrified at the prospect of no longer being able to draw. It literally kept me awake worrying. Alas, I can still draw, perhaps marginally better than before? Apparently I can still write, also. 

Slowly my life is returning to me, but I am still existing in this tiny shell; my glistening bubble of life reflecting down onto me, taunting me. People from my bubble come and go, however I remain on the edge, waiting for the moment that I can return to my life. 

The harsh realisation that my life will never be the same is something I've had to adjust to. It still hasn't hit. I haven't tried to pull a pint, swim, or cycle, since my surgery. I am "convalescing'.  Taking it easy. 

I've spent forever longing for time to just take it easy and catch up with myself. And yet here I am, eagerly awaiting my first shift back at work, and back in front of a computer typing up mindless essays for university. 

It's an odd existence.

But an existence nonetheless.

I am grateful to be here; to be alive and (not yet) kicking. 

Life's priorities suddenly become very clear when you are faced with a potential death sentence. When you look the man in the eye who states he "may not be able to save you" and nod, what else can you possibly do?

"You will die if you don't have this procedure. You also may not survive this procedure - a 25-40% rate of stroke/brain damage/ death. Shall we go ahead" 

Fuck.

I walked into the theatre and laid down. At peace with the thought that I would not wake up. I genuinely expected to close my eyes, and never open them again. 

And here I am. The other side. 

Life.

[airiejynx]

The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra - at The Dove St Inn?

Regulars at the Dove St Inn are used to the occasional visit from musicians performing at The Regent down the road. Drinkers however checked their glasses last night as members of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra tipped up for a pint, instruments in hand.

Kelly Will, barmaid and artist in residence at The Dove, and a writer for IpswichSpy, tells the story.

It was just another Wednesday night working, when suddenly groups of people start piling through the door, and the mutter of, "there's something on at the Regent tonight" is heard. Each ordering a pint of local Real Ale, no one takes any notice except to frown at the masses wanting food, having not pre warned us.

"All the Philharmonic are wanting pies" exclaims Dom, my colleague. Wait, the Philharmonic, it can't be, not in Ipswich? Presenting the next customer with a smile, I notice that he's wearing a ruffled white shirt... "just out of interest, what group are you, performing at the Regent tonight?" I ask sheepishly. "Oh we are the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra" he casually states back, clearly expecting the barmaid to have no clue who is he talking about.

The room starts spinning, only me and the apparent musician in front of me in the bar. I ask him to repeat. Suddenly I am a child, and I've just discovered Santa Claus. The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra are in the Dove Street Inn, and I've been serving them drinks for half an hour. I nearly fall over with shock, only woken by the screech of "Kelly, there's food on".

Having seen the RPO play the Movie Gala at the Royal Albert Hall in June 2014, all emotion and memory of their musical beauty suddenly comes rushing back, overwhelming me. Remembering how the resonance of the French horn penetrated every corner of the Royal Albert Hall, particularly during scores by Composer John Williams, I well up; I cannot speak, let alone serve beer. The musician is still in front of me. I inquire where the French horn player is. Of course, he is drinking at the table in front of the bar. My head and heart now putty, I manage to request their autographs, and manically state that I must hug the French horn player. Each horn player at the table shocked by my reaction, hugs me, and passes my journal around, to be signed.

The next 6 hours is a blur. The moment soon goes, when the orchestra depart to perform at the Regent, their purpose tonight, in Ipswich. The regulars continue drinking, newcomers discovering new ales, and my colleagues continue serving. No one seems to have acknowledged let alone appreciate how much talent and beauty were just in the Dove Street Inn. The night persists, oblivious.

[airiejynx]

The Flaneur: Month of No Sketching: 2

03/09/2014

I stayed behind after work against my better judgement, to have a few drinks with my friend, who I had planned an evening in with.

During the first week of the sketch ban, I’d left my sketchbook at work – out of sight out of mind, or so I thought. Somehow, the book ended up out and surrounded by a group of rowdy stockbrokers pouring over each page.

[THETA: I wonder if any of the Freshers in here feel as lost and isolated as I felt sitting in the café at Chichester University].

Noticing myself narrating internally but not onto paper, I pulled out the Moleskine and pen. I instantly felt uneasy. Unsure of what to do and irritated at having to put extra thought into what I was putting down onto paper while my peers surrounded me, requiring a portion of my attention, I couldn’t handle it. I threw the book. How thinly was I obligated to spread myself? I threw the pen too.

Instant relief and anger; why was this such an effort- A mission?

[airiejynx]

The Flaneur; Month of No Sketching: 1

Sitting in my usual environment, listening to the musicians at the Mulberry Tree Sunday Folk Session. Tonight, there are two differences. 1- I've just got back from Ireland. 2- I don't have a sketchbook with me. I've been attending this session fortnightly for almost a year, and it has provided a platform for public sketching, allowing me to push my own boundaries - testing new mediums, such as painting with beer, and giving me the opportunity to sketch people that are seemingly unfazed - so absorbed in their own creativity. This is the first time I've been here without a sketchbook. Since I first came here, I've helped to build a group of sketchers, ranging from 2-6 each session, complimenting the 10-20 musicians that attend each time. However at this session, I was neither musician or sketcher, I was an outsider. The first time I have felt that way here. Two of the sketchers that regularly attend, have been encouraged by myself, having come from either no or little experience of public drawing. I found this a strange place to be emotionally - acting as art mentor each week, to then remove myself from the practice, like letting students go at the end of a course. Talking to another sketcher here - I told him about my month sketch ban. After an hour of processing the notion, he told me that my not drawing is making him uncomfortable. I found this flattering and sad at the same time, I love being part of this artistic unit, and to pull away is a strange concept. At the same time, I'm noticing more and less - more in the sense that I'm normally hidden behind a book, so details such as the flow of the music and conversations amongst my friends are overlooked - something I hadn't noticed before. Less in the respect of general detail - when drawing I don't have to think about what I'm doing, seeing is instinctive. However while trying to force myself to write, it's then more of a mission to get myself to focus. I know for a fact that this was once the same with drawing.

[airiejynx]

The Flaneur; the Experiment: an artist who writes? Or a writer who draws?

The Experiment: No sketching for 1 month. Why? To document how it makes me think and feel. What will I gain? While not drawing, I will focus on writing. Hoping that my writing skills will improve and become more natural, and instinctive to me in the same way that drawing is. On my return from Ireland - with another completed sketchbook and a fresh perspective, I put a considerable amount of thought into the next instalment. What would/ could I gain from choosing another black hard bound A4 landscape sketchbook? Volume 7 of my SketchBusker Chronicles is the first that I have been completely happy with - how can I possibly bring something new to the next if I don't change anything? Do I need to change anything? It is clear that the emphasis of my practice is on drawing, which is why I feel it is necessary to focus on another means of creative expression. Like an itch that I can't seem to scratch, I find myself constantly thinking about drawing - things, people, places. While drawing, I am constantly describing in my head, that which I see before me. Like a continuous descriptive narrative, there are two aspects of this. One side of this is observational, for example "His warm and tender sun kissed, olive tinted skin throbbed beneath the tips of my fingers. His taste buds protruded from the soft, moist surface of his tongue, declaring their presence like spilt sugar granules, undissolved on the outer layer of a warm dessert... " These words pulsed through my mind while just sitting next to someone - I am constantly writing in my mind. The other aspect of my writing is reflection, which is where my blog comes in. Again descriptive, however instead of wanting or needing to extract details from the moment, I cogitate and speculate. Having not gone with my standard sketchbook format, I instead bought a small portrait Moleskine sketchbook. Its taken two years and seven sketchbooks to find my preferred base ingredients for sketching. Standing in paper chase, I instinctively wanted to head to the back of the shop, where my usual book awaits me. Instead, I wandered to the rack of Moleskines, my heart racing - feeling like a smoker about to 'quit'. The majority of what I was feeling was confusion. Why would I consider putting myself through this?

[airiejynx]

The Flaneur; The Third Eye

In A Level Philosophy 8 years ago, the class was asked to write a paragraph describing a pencil. I got more out of that lesson than I did of two years GCSE English. I instinctively knew what to write, how to articulate this tube of lead, surrounded by compressed wood that was coated in a film of lacquered paint. I cannot now do justice to the wording that I once used, nor do I need to - the response from my teacher confirmed my growing confidence as a cocky teenage creative. Of course once again I write this on the bus journey to my sisters. While passing fields and fields of various shades of green, yellow and brown I automatically switch from town habitant to country girl. I instinctively begin to see through my 'third eye' - the best way I can describe not just looking, but seeing. Every single colour jumps out at me, teasing me, while every contrasting texture on the landscape around me chops and changes with each field edge, road and hedge line. And it occurs to me, how many other people can switch into this at their leisure? While these thoughts race around my head, I try to think of an analogy to fit this. When a photographer looks through a camera lens, he focuses on an area of interest, while the surrounding scene lays in a fog of 'bokeh'. I wonder, if this is how it feels to not actually SEE, but to peer at a minuscule amount of detail, while the world slowly passes in a hazy existence? The third eye that I refer to, is something we all have access to, and it seems that so many are unaware of it. I partly feel saddened for these people, while also feeling liberated and privileged to be so tuned in myself.

[airiejynx]

The Flaneur; Drawing With Words.

Recently I've found myself wanting to write about a number of things, and not knowing whether I should; will I offend anyone? Is it appropriate? Where is the fine line between what is and should be kept private and not? The more I open my eyes, the more I find myself wanting to describe and articulate almost everything, in the same way that I have this impulse to sketch everything. I no longer hold back on what I should sketch, and feel liberated as a result. Should writing be the same? I feel the need to describe, every detail that I notice and experience... ... The way my lips instantly warm when yours touch mine, the way your stubble brushes against my chin, like toast being scraped against my skin... ... The way your eyes relax when you look at me, the second before a kiss, the single line upon your forehead when your looking down, and then the small indent between your eyebrows that changes colour with the sun, left untanned and white... ...the way certain parts of your skin feel particularly soft, the indent of the nape of your neck when shaved, the edge of your jaw line as it meets your lobes... ... The way you hold my legs, as your chin rests in that place... Your nostrils blowing hot air onto me.... That first bright eyed smile upon waking, letting me know it's going to be another amazing day... The tiny flec in your right eye, that sits in a deep pool of burnt sienna... The ever so slight slope of your nose, and the way my fingertip feels when it explores the tiny hairs along your ear lobe... Giggling... And giggling again... Suddenly the world distorts, brighter, lighter, stretched... Another giggle... "I think it's working"... The television suddenly makes no sense... Her face brings another eruption of laughter, then reciprocated... Why are her eyes so big? They aren't her eyes? An amazing thought! I begin to say out loud, wait, where did it go? My goodness doesn't his skin feel amazing... More giggles... Another amazing though lost... What's that sensation? Hunger! Melon... Oh my, the melon. Ice cold and soft on my tongue, filling every inch of my senses... Another giggle, who's holding the melon? Is that my hand? I'd better have a drink.... But who's holding the glass??? That's not my hand... Don't drop the glass... Another amazing thought!!! My goodness, I can't seem to let the words escape my mouth... My tongue is alive, and my mouth is numb... More giggles... The drink.... The edges of my tongue are cold, the centre of my tongue, warm and sensual... His skin.... More giggles... More amazing thoughts!! Brush my teeth... The mint! The cold.... Amazing... Bed... Oh my goodness his skin... His lips, the stubble on his face... His shoulders... Tingling.... Am I dreaming? Am I having sex? It feels so good. Relax.... Am I dreaming? Am I having sex?? So relaxed... Why is the bed wet? Did I dream? Was his stubbly face there? So so relaxed... Oh dear I must have wet the bed... Towel! ... Burning plastic... In my mouth! Oh god not a migraine, please no. Ol factory aura you can fuck off. I need to be sick. My heads in the toilet, a brown mess leaves my face, burning plastic exiting my mouth, more, and more. I can't see... Where are my glasses.... Did I aim properly? Flush. Mouthwash.... ... That smile... Burnt sienna eyes, slowly open, the smile fills me as our lips meet. What a night....