Mixed Media Gallery

One morning in May I was collecting wood from my little lean-to woodshed at the back of my workshop when, rushing in to my face,a song thrush flew out and away.

I discovered that she had built a substantial nest at the top of the wood pile and that, as I removed a few logs from the front, I had threatened its stability. On other occasions, I had seen blackbirds start nests in and around the workshop, which they had then abandoned, once I made an appearance, so I expected that the song thrush would behave the same. However, she came back, no doubt to sit on eggs already laid.

For the next few weeks I kept away from the area, though I did peep in once in a while, from a distance, and could see the little beady eye and fierce beak of the bird, as she sat patiently, silently waiting. Soon, I had to to on a working trip for a couple of weeks and when I returned, there were more beaks poking out the nest. Two chicks! And it was only a matter of a couple of weeks after that that they fledged and were away. This 'nest box' is my tribute to the secret, silent waiting of the song bird.

These little figures were made from grass, paper and feathers and appeared perched on a fence which was
part of an installation representing the boundary of my garden.

As part of the 2009 Ullapool Community Textile Exhibition (organised by the Macphail Centre), I produced an installation that was part wild meadow, part mowed lawn. I made a number of wild flowers out of fabric, paper, wire, ribbons and small haberdashery. Amongst the flowers portrayed were flag iris, marsh orchid, oxeye daisy and field scabious. I was pleased that, when placed within a real meadow, they looked most at home!

Sea Watching I listened for a light As I lifted my eyes wide Above the blunt Face of a seamless pier. Fifty years - A thousand more - This spot has harboured Watchers of the sea, Each soul half-filled And ever-anchored. Now this life is fading. The night pulls in deep And gives up nothing. Colonsay, July 2009 The Weaving of Grass Grass is a token Of love, Of labour, Of poverty And pride. It is both the sign of loneliness And of sweet trampled passion. It is green as youth And old as the hills. It is Spring. It is Summer. It is a brackish Autumn And lies battered in a Winter's storm. It is food. It is shelter. It makes life and It blankets the dead. The grass is both seed and fruit. And that same grass Will gather in gentle hands As Angus steps lightly To find his way home. Isle of Tanera, 3rd August 2010 The Washing Line A tryptich of cupboards, each one layered inside with images exploring aspects of landscape. Click on images below to enlarge. DHTML Menus Jan@wildtiles.co.uk

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