Create Christmas tree candle stands

Christmas firs fashioned from planks of wood make for a glowing festive decoration when used to display candles. These rustic tree stands will create a warm display to welcome guests to your home this season.

WHAT YOU WILL NEED

• Plank of reclaimed wood approximately 10 times its width in length

• 8mm dowels

• 8mm drill bit

• Wood glue

• Small jars

HOW TO MAKE THE TREES

Step 1: A 56in by 6in by 1in (142 x 15 x 2.5cm) plank is marked out following the diagram below, and cut with a saw to form the tree parts. This makes one tree. Smaller or larger trees can be made from different sizes of plank, providing the proportions remain the same.

Step 2: Two 8mm holes are drilled along each inside edge of the tree halves, making sure they line up. As the wood is angled, it may be easier or safer to drill when it is held in a vice. Glue is applied to the holes and facing inside edges. Dowels are inserted to fit the two sides together and the tree left to dry.

Step 3: Two 8mm holes are drilled through the centre of the base to align with two corresponding holes drilled into the bottom of the tree. Wood glue is applied as before and the sections fitted together using dowels.

Step 4: Each shelf is sanded down for a more even finish. Two 8mm holes are drilled in the back of each shelf.

Step 5: Corresponding 8mm holes are drilled into the tree at the chosen height for each shelf. Glue is applied to the dowels and back edge of the shelf before it is pushed into place.

A candle in a jar is placed on each shelf. Extreme care should be taken with lit candles in close proximity to wood. Alternatively, other decorations, such as plants, could be placed on the shelves.

A FLORAL THEATRE

Sussex florist Georgia Miles puts frothy grasses, striking foliage and rich-hued blooms centre stage in her garden bouquets

An array of bright-coloured dahlias lie on a long table, their straight stems surrounded by rich foliage. Behind stand buckets filled with a myriad of flowers, including the delicate papery heads of Physalis alkekengi, the Chinese lantern, frothy Alchemilla mollis and white hydrangeas.

These are the tools of the trade for florist Georgia Miles, at the Sussex Flower School. Here, she teaches a range of students, from gardeners who want to improve their home-grown flower arrangements to professional florists wanting to enhance their skills.

Setting the stage

Her flower arranging has changed considerably from the days when she used to teach at East Sussex’s Plumpton College. Now her style is much freer than in the past with the main blooms being dahlias, sweet peas and English-grown flowers. “My arrangements used to feature very structured flowers, such as roses, carnations, spray chrysanthemums and lilies; typically the sort you’d easily find in supermarkets,” says Georgia. “Now, all my flowers are British grown, many grown myself. I choose types that are not quite so uniform and, because of this, my arrangements have naturally evolved into
a relaxed form. 

“There’s much more awareness now of growing your own flowers, and people are increasingly wanting to know how to make more relaxed, floral, foam-free hand-tied bouquets,” she explains.

Foliage is important for these informal, country garden-style arrangements. “It’s key, so grow, cut, forage or buy it,” she advises. “Use it to create the structure of the design. The arrangement’s height and width should be created from the foliage.” Georgia uses a mixture of foliage at this time of the year, much of it from her own garden. “I like to use plenty of leaves, as they are no longer new and so are stronger and last longer once picked. Beech, silver birch and cotinus are favourites. The slow growing pittosporum is also a useful addition.” She is also fond of Clematis vitalba, often called old man’s beard and found rambling over hedges in the countryside, and laurel. Both grow in her garden. She enjoys foraging for berries, which are also used in her arrangements to add colour and different textures.  

It is only once this is done that the flowers are chosen. Georgia recommends ensuring there is a mixture of different forms, so they are not all linear or round shapes. “I use a three-tier system in my arrangements,” she explains. “The focal flowers are round and include roses, dahlias and peonies. These draw the eye and are mixed with linear flowers, which are pointy, but not rigid, and provide height. Foliage is added, and grasses are a particularly good choice, as they often have an interesting curve in the stem. 

“I look for plants that aren’t symmetrical, or ones that have wiggly
or twisted stems. Then I add what I call the bridesmaid, or supporting flowers, creating the third tier. These are lush and offer a transition between the focal and linear flowers.” 

She particularly likes to use eustoma or lisianthus along with spray roses as these bridesmaid flowers. She suggests including anything in spray form with smaller heads.

The last step is to use what Georgia calls a filler flower. These fill any gaps, making the bouquet or arrangement look full and luxurious. “These are the flowers you might forget to buy in a shop because they seem boring and would not look pretty in a vase on their own, but they are really relevant, as they add shading to the arrangement,” she says. 

Growing in abundance in her beds, in autumn, these include armfuls of pink and russet sedum, fluffy grasses, large hydrangea flowers and asters. All supply a froth of colourful flowers and foliage to perfect an autumnal bouquet. 

A love of dahlias

Many of the flowers she uses in the school are grown in her own garden. Hidden behind brick walls, raised beds flourish. In the autumn, vibrant jewel-coloured dahlias, bright zinnias and large clumps of thriving perennials vie for attention. 

Dahlias are Georgia’s passion and her favourite flower for cutting. “I love these flowers because there are hundreds of varieties, forms and colours,” she explains. “They are super fashionable and are cut and come again. Feed and water them well and each time one is cut, another will grow, right through to the first frost.” She grows hers in raised beds in the 50ft wide by 100ft long (15x30m) cutting garden. 

“I think raised beds are easier for a cutting garden,” she says. “You can control the soil much more, and they are easier to access.” At the bottom of the South Downs, Eastbourne’s soil is chalky, with a tendency to be thin and alkaline. By growing in raised beds, she can provide better soil for plants that have to supply plenty of stems for cutting.

The walls provide both shelter and warmth for the plants, keeping the temperature inside slightly higher than it would be if the garden was open to the elements. This, added to Eastbourne’s mild southerly seaside location, means the garden rarely experiences frost.

“It’s not frost free, but we don’t tend to have severe frosts,” Georgia explains. As a result, tender plants, such as her beloved dahlias, can be left in the ground to overwinter. In fact, she found she lost more tubers through rotting when she did try to lift them, than when they were left in the beds during the colder weather. “I cut them down, make sure they are labelled, then I put a big pile, about half a foot, of well-rotted horse manure on top. After that, I just leave them be, and they are absolutely fine. It never gets so cold I have to worry, but if it did become very wet, I might be inclined to cover the beds with plastic sheeting.” 

Range of colours

Because they are left in place, the dahlias increase in size annually, producing more and more blooms for cutting. Georgia also adds approximately 20 new varieties each year. “I love all their colours, but I like experimenting,” she says. “I normally go for the really dark red-black ones, but I have added lots of oranges, which I love.” Tangerine-flowered, dark-leaved ‘David Howard’ and vermilion-orange ‘Happy Halloween’ joined deep, velvety red cutting classics such as ‘Arabian Night’.

Added to these are pale, pink, white and peach varieties, such as ‘Café au Lait’. “I needed to have some pale colours for our wedding flower courses,” she says. “Now, I’ve got a whole new spectrum, and they are so abundant I can pick buckets of them every week.” 

Annuals for variety

As well as the dahlias, her beds provide many other autumnal plants to arrange with them. Long-lasting annuals, such as zinnias, cosmos and multi-stemmed sunflowers, billow from her raised beds along with perennials, such as sedums, rudbeckias, grasses and penstemons.

The cosmos in flower in autumn were sown in pots in spring and planted out. They tend to self-sow, so Georgia lifts seedlings that are not where they are wanted. She pots them up to grow on in the greenhouse until they are bigger. This keeps her beds free for earlier, quick- growing annuals.

Her vibrant zinnias were sown direct in late spring. She has started growing pastel-coloured zinnias as well as the bright ones. “I found that although they are very beautiful, the bright colours are less useful for flowers at the school. Brides don’t want bright colours,” she explains. 

As well as mitigating the effects of frost, the walls keep out strong winds. She still supports all her flowers, using green pea netting stretched horizontally over the beds, to ensure unbroken, long stems. 

Passion for teaching

Georgia’s enthusiasm for her school is infectious, and she is keen to spread the joy of working with flowers.

“I enjoy teaching and passing on knowledge and experience, and now my main focus is on supporting other people while they are carving out their own careers,” she says. “I’ve had an interest in gardening since being a child. However, it took having my own garden for me to recognise how passionate I was about the subject and that working with flowers was what I wanted to do. I never wanted to work in other people’s gardens, just my own. I particularly enjoy the commercial side of what I do, running the business, which surprised me. I like bringing people together and I always bake a cake for the occasion. Growing flowers to cut has always been my main interest, mostly because I’m producing something that I can sell, which I’m very proud of.”

Over the past two years, she has noticed that more people than ever are training to be florists, as they can trade online and no longer need a bricks and mortar shop. “I run career-changing courses for those who want to move into floristry from other jobs, and they are very popular, especially with the young and trendy,” she says. “I started out only running two courses a year, but have now increased this to three, due to demand. There are lots of ways to market a business now, and this surge in people training to be florists is the result. 

“I am lucky, as I get to do what I love every day and I thoroughly enjoy helping others to achieve the same goal. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”   

Contact: The Sussex Flower School, East Hoathly, BN8 6QA 01825 841370

www.thesussexflowerschool.co.uk

Words: Clare Foggett and Julie Brown Photography: Abigail Rex

THE WOODLAND CAST IN SILVER

In a quiet corner of a family home on the edge of the Surrey Hills, a replica of an acorn is being shaped in silver. The perfectly proportioned nut, still in its cup, was a chance find during a stroll on nearby Headley Heath. Now it is being recreated, a long-lasting reminder of its autumnal perfection.

Working on the acorn is jeweller Caroline Brook. Accompanied only by the background murmur of the radio, she makes gold and silver pieces inspired by nature. “I love the work,” she says. “I like the idea of the permanence of what I make, and the fact people nearly always buy it for a reason, usually as a gift.” 

Perfecting skills

After leaving school, Caroline worked in a bank. It was only when she was in her early 30s that she finally succumbed to her love of making things with her hands. She enrolled in a series of evening classes. “I signed up for sculpture, but the class was cancelled, so I ended up on the jewellery course. I was completely hooked from the very first day,” she says. “I have always liked detail, so I fell in love with the tools, such as the tiny files and tiny saw blades. I appreciated the way the metal was so malleable that you could just form it to create anything.”  

She attended evening classes for three years, then was offered work experience in London with a Hatton Garden jeweller. Initially, she helped out with paperwork, but was soon working on the jewellery. Caroline ended up staying there for seven years, serving what was in effect an apprenticeship. “It was a fantastic environment, being in a real workshop and learning from a master,” she says.

Working space 

Today, 20 years on from her first course, she works from home in her peaceful studio space. Here, she has a traditional jeweller’s bench. Taller than a work bench, it allows the craftsperson to sit tall, without hunching over the work surface. It has a curved indentation on which sit clamped tools and a jeweller’s peg. This is a wedge of wood on which the jeweller places the metal being worked on. 

Beneath, there is a drawer designed to catch any pieces of scrap metal or gold dust. This can then be melted down and re-used. There are boxes of tools with wooden handles and a series of blow torches. A section of beech tree trunk was found on a walk on the heath. “A beech tree had been cut down and pieces were left,” says Caroline. “It is perfect for hammering and punching metal, as it absorbs the shock.” 

Capturing beauty

She makes a range of jewellery including rings, bracelets, pendants and cufflinks. Almost all her pieces have their roots in nature and the gentle Surrey countryside surrounding her home. “I have always been attracted to nature. I walk every day with my dog and watch the seasons come and go,” she says. “I search for objects and pick things up that appeal to me like tiny acorns, twigs and branches or pretty stones. I really enjoy the search for that special piece.

“I picked this acorn up because the detail was incredible. It was a lovely size and very delicate. I liked the volume of the cup, its texture and the way it’s quite a deep cup with a little acorn in the middle,” she explains.

To turn the acorn into a silver pendant, Caroline has to make a clay mould. This allows her to create a cast of the nut that accurately reproduces all its detail. “I have the skills to make my own version, but what appeals to me is the idea of preserving a piece of nature forever. I want to capture its beauty in precious metal,” she says. Casting highlights the intricacy of the natural detail on objects. “You don’t realise the lovely texture on an acorn cup until you see it cast.”

Pouring silver

The next stage is to prepare the silver. For this piece, she uses sterling silver, an alloy containing 92.5 per cent silver by weight and 7.5 per cent other metals, usually copper. She prefers to work with fine silver, which is almost 99 per cent pure. “It is very malleable with a nice white colour. But it is softer, so not as good for this type of piece,” she says. 

The metal is heated using a blow torch, and becomes liquid after approximately five minutes. Caroline then quickly pours the metal into the mould. This is very tricky. The silver hardens the moment the heat is removed. If the pouring is not timed correctly, the mould can be ruined. If that happens, the process has to start again. The metal can be melted down and re-used, but the burnt areas of clay have to be thrown away and a new mould created.

The silver acorn is removed from its clay casing and the finishing process started. First, Caroline removes the sprue, the stem created by the remaining metal in the pouring channel. A piercing saw with a very fine blade is used to do this. The rough edge left by the cut is then smoothed with a fine file, without removing any of the surface detail. 

Finishing off

To make the silver acorn into a pendant, Caroline attaches a jump ring, the little silver loop through which the chain is threaded. This is made from silver wire and is neatly soldered to the base of the acorn. The soldering can be a fiddly procedure, but one that she enjoys. “I have endless patience, and love working with small things,” she says. 

She cuts small pieces of solder to fasten the jump ring on the acorn. These are applied to both the base of the cup and the jump ring, and then the area is heated.
For this fine work, she uses a traditional jeweller’s mouth. This involves blowing through a rubber tube, controlling the flame with her breath. The solder has a lower melting point than the silver, so the flame melts it but leaves the precious metal untouched. The melted solder acts as glue, joining the jump ring to the acorn. 

The soldering work leaves a dark discolouration created by oxidisation. An acid compound called pickle is used to remove this. The silver is added to a mix of pickle and water in an old slow cooker. It is then gently heated for approximately four minutes. When the silver is taken out, all the black oxide has disappeared.  

Final touches

The final stage of the process is polishing. This turns the whitish finish into shining silver. Caroline polishes the acorn by hand using a fine mop head made of lambs’ wool attached to a pendant motor. This mechanically rotates the mop head, allowing the polish to be applied evenly. The process takes 20 minutes. 

Hand-polishing allows her to retain the all-important contrast between the smooth acorn and its minutely dimpled cup. Once the polishing is finished, the acorn pendant is threaded with a chain and is ready to wear. 

It takes a full day to make this tiny, delicate acorn pendant, for Caroline time well spent. “I always feel that I need to make things with my hands, and my hands just want to work,” she says. The detailed work involved in making jewellery particularly appeals to her, but she also enjoys making something special for other people. “I often hear the stories behind pieces such as engagement rings. People like to tell me their stories and I like to hear them,” she says. 

“I love the fact that my pieces are something that people will wear and cherish for a long time.” 

Making a mould

Caroline uses the Delft clay casting method. The process was invented by a Dutch goldsmith in the 1980s. This is perfect for jewellers such as Caroline, who work on a small scale. It allows her to cast items without recourse to expensive tools. To make the mould, a small, circular aluminium ring frame is filled with Delft clay, which is oily and sticky. The frame comes in two sections which fit on top of each other. The larger ring measures approximately ¾in (2cm) high and 1½in (4cm) in diameter. The smaller is approximately ½in (1.5cm) high. Small marks on each ring mean they can be carefully aligned when joined together.

Creating the shape

Caroline firmly packs the clay into the smaller bottom ring and pushes the acorn into it. She then fills the bigger ring with clay and places it on top. It is essential to check the rings are aligned and the acorn is completely buried in clay. She then taps the top with a mallet. This gets rid of any air pockets. It also ensures the shape of the acorn is neatly moulded into the clay. 

Now the two rings are separated and the acorn removed. Caroline uses a knitting needle to create a channel through the upper ring of clay. She pushes up from the acorn indentation to the outer edge and widens the hole at the top with a small bladed knife. This is called the sprue hole. The molten metal will be poured through this. 

A series of smaller holes will let out the displaced air and steam created when the molten metal is poured. The rings are carefully re-joined to finish the mould. 

Mark of origin 

Caroline’s larger pieces require hallmarking before she is able to sell them, although pieces like the acorn pendant which weigh less than 7g are exempt from this legal requirement. Caroline sends her jewellery to the Sheffield Assay Office where it is stamped with the year it was made, the quality of the metal and the Sheffield stamp. It also has her maker’s mark: the initials SCW within little diamond-shaped frames. 

Contact www.caroline-brook-jewellery.myshopify.com

Acorn pendants from £55

Words: Diana Woolf Photography: Clive Doyle

WINTER TREES CAPTURED IN PRINT

A Devon artist captures the sharp outlines of leafless trees in his striking linocut prints

An ancient oak wood sits in a valley on the edge of Dartmoor. Mist drifts down from the moors and hangs in the top of the trees. Their leafless, stark winter silhouettes are the inspiration behind artist Richard Shimell’s evocative prints.

“I like their many curving, complex branches,” he says.“I am attracted to trees for both their simplicity and their complexity. The shapes in winter are hugely complex and interesting. You could lose yourself staring at one, but a silhouette doesn’t have to involve tone. That means I can cut something which is simple, in that sense.’

Richard spends time walking on the moor and in the surrounding woods. While he walks, he photographs views and trees that catch his eye. Returning home, he checks the images. “I need to have lots of images in order to find one that I like and which will work as a silhouette,” he says. 

Content and configuration

The pictures he eventually selects are the ones that stand out for their composition and shape. One photograph that attracted him depicts two hawthorn trees. One has fallen over and is supported by the second. This in turn is being pushed into the lower tree by the prevailing wind. “There are two things going on here, as the wind direction is going one way and the fallen tree the other,” he says. “This creates a sense of balance or tension between the two. It’s difficult not to anthropomorphise them, as the two trees are an obvious metaphor for someone supporting someone else, co-existing with them, but still being separate.”  

When planning a print, he also takes the negative space into account. “You want to have nice blank areas of empty space to balance the areas of detail,” he explains.

A former journalist, Richard only took up printmaking when he moved to Devon in 2010. A chance visit to a local printmaker’s studio inspired him to find out more about linocut printing. He joined the Dartington workshop. “I found printmaking very difficult to begin with. But it was a way of expressing myself that I had been waiting for, so I just kept going,” he says. He did find that a long-held interest in photography helped him with the composition of his prints. 

Once a photograph has been chosen, he makes a sketch of it on paper. “I always do a sketch to make the image mine,” he says. He sometimes sketches in pencil, but prefers working in charcoal. “I have a tendency to be too precise, but charcoal makes me freer as it moves so easily and you can smudge it.” The sketching process lets him see how effectively the photograph will work as a print. He edits out details such as houses, simplifies forms, and experiments with tones.

Once the sketch is right, he copies it exactly in pencil onto a panel of vinyl. The vinyl is 2mm thick and has a smooth surface. It is the same size as the intended print, as it will eventually become the printing plate or block. Most of the prints are in the region of 15-18in wide by 12in high (40-50cm x 30cm). 

From flooring to print

When Richard first began printing he worked with lino, but now prefers to use offcuts of vinyl flooring. “Working with vinyl is the same principle as working with lino, but it’s much easier to define detail in vinyl, as it’s a harder material,” he says. This is important, as precise detail and crisp lines are a key part of his work. The vinyl comes from offcuts of material normally used for flooring in institutions such as schools and hospitals. “I like the fact that it’s such a mundane material and that I am able to recycle something that people don’t want any more,” he says. 

Cutting the pattern can take up to a month, but it is the part of the process he enjoys the most. “I love the cutting. I get into a rhythm or flow and then I can do it for hours and hours. At the end I feel relaxed and fulfilled,” he says. Cuts are made along the drawn pencil lines. They remove all the vinyl except those areas which will form the finished image. These untouched, raised sections will be inked to form the pattern on the print. This method of printmaking is called relief or block printing.

To cut away the surface, Richard uses wood-cutting tools. These are steel blades, roughly 5-6in (12-15cm) in length, with rounded wooden handles designed for holding in the palm of the hand. The blades vary in shape and size, with some having a V-shaped profile and others more being U-shaped. Because of the detail, he uses the smallest tools he can find, some as narrow as 1mm across. The wooden handle held in his palm, he pushes the blade gently into the vinyl. His other hand acts as a brake, or to guide the movement. The work is so intricate that a magnifying lamp is needed to help him achieve the neat, precise outlines he requires.

Adding detail

Recently, Richard started working with wood-engraving tools as well. These enable more texture to be created than the wood-cutting tools. “I can achieve more variety with the engraving tools,” he says. “They allow me to make thin or patterned marks on the vinyl, which will show up in white.” His plates are now cut using a combination of both types of tool. “What I do is a kind of hybrid between a linocut and a wood engraving. I use the linocut technique for the tree and the wood-engraving tool for the landscape. This opens up a lot more opportunities to depict a tree in the landscape.”

When the plate is finished, Richard is finally ready to start printing. He uses a modern Hawthorn press, printing on to Somerset 250gsm paper, made from cotton rag. This is an etching press, with a bed approximately 47in long by 21in wide (120 x 54cm).

Most of the tree silhouettes use two plates. The first is a plain vinyl plate used to create the background colour. Richard pours oil-based, washable Caligo ink onto a glass slab, using it to coat a hand-held spindle roller. When it is evenly covered with ink, he rolls it over the plate three or four times. The ink-covered plate is then put on the printer with a sheet of paper carefully positioned on top. The plate and paper are wound through the printer rollers, the process transferring the colour to the paper. 

The background colours may be graduated to give the effect of a winter’s sky at twilight. Colours fade from a deep blue to a subtle primrose yellow. Richard achieves this by colouring the first plain plate with a blend of inks. He places three different colours, dark blue, pale blue and yellow, in bands along the glass plate. The roller is pushed through the colours, Richard moving it slightly across the bands to mix the colours. When the roller is evenly covered, he coats the plate with the ink and then uses the inked plate to print a coloured background.

When the background is finished, the image of the actual tree can be printed. The inking process is repeated, but this time black ink is used to coat the plate cut with the tree image. The ink sticks to the raised surface, while the cut-away areas are left uncoloured. Richard places the paper printed with the background colour on top of the black inked plate before rolling the two through the printer. The result is a dramatic black silhouette against a gently coloured sky.

“I love doing this,’” says Richard. “It is fantastic and hugely exciting when you are printing something new and you first lift up the paper and see what you’ve printed.” 

Printing techniques

Linocut is relief printing, a method of transferring an image onto paper using a plate, or block, with a pattern cut into it. The background is cut away leaving a raised image on the surface which is then inked. The recessed background remains untouched. The plate is then pressed onto paper, in the process transferring the inked pattern onto the surface of the paper. 

The earliest form of relief printing was woodblock printing. This was carried out for centuries. Then, in the early 1900s, artists realised they could replace the traditional woodblock with a new, softer material called linoleum – lino. This had been invented in 1855. Made out of solidified linseed oil, it was intended as a flooring material. Artists discovered that it was much easier to work than wood, as it was softer to cut and had no awkward grain. 

The new technique was taken up by artists such as Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse. Picasso produced his first linocut in 1939, going on to use the technique more in the 1950s and ‘60s. It was popularised in Britain after the Grosvenor School of Modern Art opened in London in 1925. Here, students were taught linocut classes by the artist Claude Flight. Today, linocut is often taught in schools as an accessible introduction to printmaking.

Introducing colour

Linocut printing can be used in several ways. The simplest method is to print in one colour using one plate. However, more colours can be introduced by using more plates. Each different plate is cut with a different pattern which can then be covered with a different colour ink. For example, a bowl of fruit could be printed with three plates. The first could depict the bowl itself in blue, the second, apples in green and the third, a bunch of yellow bananas. 

A more complex method of making a multi-coloured print is by using the linocut reduction method. This is when one single plate is used to create a print with a series of progressive cuttings, inkings and printings. The disadvantage of this method is that, as the plate is gradually cut away, more and more of it is destroyed. This means it cannot be re-used. However, using the same plate for each printing means that the problems involved in exactly matching the paper to the plate, or registration, are avoided. 

Contact: www.richardshimell.co.uk Print prices from £50

Words: Diana Woolf Photography: Jeremy Walker

A RURAL SHROPSHIRE WORKSHOP PRODUCES TRADITIONAL ROCKING HORSES

CHILDREN'S FAVOURITE IS CREATED USING TECHNIQUES DATING FROM VICTORIAN TIMES

The smell of wood, fresh leather, paint and glue mingle in the one storey workshop of rocking horse makers Steve and Alison Smith. Shelves containing thick planks of wood line the walls, curly wood shavings and sawdust crunch underfoot, and all around the room are horses in various stages of construction. A box of smoothly carved heads sits atop a cabinet. Hanks of horse hair, which will be used to make manes and tails, hang from a row of hooks. Five unpainted horses are lined up waiting for their transformation into sleek dappled grey steeds with jingling leather bridles and burnished brown leather saddles. 

Here in the Shropshire countryside, Steve, Alison and a small team of skilled workers produce approximately 25 rocking horses each year. Steve makes the horses from wood, and Alison, a trained artist, paints them. “We are constantly trying to recreate horses that are as lifelike as the ones made by the Victorians,” says Steve. “We’re replicating a particular style of workmanship to achieve that incredible quality and attention to detail.”

The couple have been making rocking horses since 1985 when a friend asked Steve if he could make one for his first child. “I had trained as an engineer, but wood carving had been a hobby since I was a kid,” explains Steve. “We had an old horse in the family and I copied it. It was falling apart so I took every stick to bits and studied it. That first horse was a success, and other people started to ask for them. We turned the hobby into a business and sales grew quickly.” 

Alison and Steve were living on a narrow boat, a 72-foot craft called the Heather Bell, at the time. At first they worked on board. “We had planks of wood delivered to the boat,” recalls Steve. “But after a year and a half, when our baby daughter Heather arrived, demand for the horses was growing and we decided we needed to move to dry land.”

By 1992, they had relocated to Shropshire, where they still live in a lock keeper’s cottage by a canal. The horses are now made in a small workshop six miles away and the couple have a showroom in a converted chapel just a few minutes walk along the lane from their home. “We have up to five staff who help us with painting, carving and office work, depending on demand,” explains Steve. “The busiest time is in the run up to Christmas.” 

The couple estimate they have made around 1,500 horses. The design of the horses is based on a traditional pattern. “In Victorian times a company called FH Ayres made the best quality horses. They are regarded by collectors and craftsmen as the ideal,” says Alison. “The company was in production from 1857 to the end of World War II. We try to copy these horses and replicate the craftsmanship as closely as we can. They were beautifully made and had a certain finesse.” 

Initially, rocking horses were made as an aid to teach basic equestrian skills and balance to children from privileged families. Traditionally, it was important that the proportions of each horse were accurate and this is something that Alison and Steve strive for today. 

From planks of wood

Each horse starts life as a simple plank of rough wood approximately 13ft (4m) long. A mixture of different woods are used to make one animal. Beech, a hardwood, is used for the legs, which need to be strong to take the weight of the rider. The larger horses can bear an adult. Tulip wood, which is easier to carve, is chosen for the heads and sturdy pine or oak is used for the stands. Oak stands are much heavier and stronger than pine. Pine is strong, but lighter to lift. “We do also make rockers, but stands are safer and give a better ride, so they tend to be more popular,” says Steve. The smallest horses they make are 41in (104cm) high and 54in (137cm) long. The largest ones measure 57in (145cm) high and 70in (178cm) long.

Steve usually makes up to five horses at any one time, working in batches. Cardboard templates are cut out in the shapes of the body, neck, front and hind legs. These are traced on to the wooden planks. A band saw with a rotating blade is used to cut around the shapes. Steve now begins to assemble the horse. He first makes a coffee table shape, a flat-topped body with four legs jointed into the wood. The jointing is done by cutting a slot in a plank of wood at ten degrees. A corresponding slot is cut into the top of each of the horse’s legs. The two pieces are then slotted together.

A neck is then fixed to the body, using glue and clamps to secure it. Twelve blocks of wood called muscle blocks are stuck on to the neck and clamped until the glue dries. These give a three-dimensional effect while replicating the powerful curves of a horse’s neck. “The muscle blocks are square shaped, so at this point it does not look much like a horse,” says Steve. 

He now turns his attention to the horse’s body. This is transformed from a set of sharply angled blocks into a smooth torso. He uses five different grades of sandpaper, starting with a coarse one, and then using progressively finer ones. Some of the sanding is done by hand, but he also uses a handheld power sander to refine the wood. Next, the head is glued on with a specialist glue which dries in 20 minutes. 

The art of creating heads

Steve takes special care when carving the horse’s heads. “Each is unique. I am always trying to make the next head the best one yet,” he says. He has no precise patterns and instead carves them largely freehand. “There is a template for the basic shape, but you have a picture in your head of how you can create something that is beautiful. It is the most artistic part of the making process.”

Steve uses three differently sized gouges to shape the head, creating flared nostrils, the open mouth and the undulating cheeks of the horse. Concave holes are made for the eyes to be inserted later. “Things do go wrong sometimes,” he says. “You might get the nostril in the wrong place or the head is not symmetrical.” In the situation where, for instance, a nostril is not in symmetry then re-carving can save the head, but if it is too far out, the head will be discarded. On a good day, Steve can carve five heads. 

A stand is made using four flat pieces of pine. These are fixed in a cruciform shape, then screwed and glued together. Two holes are drilled at the intersection of the cruciform. On the lathe, two circular posts are shaped or turned and these slot upright into the previously made holes. A piece of flat wood with two holes corresponding to those in the base is made. The horse will eventually rock from this on two swing irons.

Applying the paint

Before this happens the horse must be painted. Alison applies a white, oil-based undercoat which is slightly transparent to bring out the grain of the wood. This is left to dry overnight. She sands the paint and applies a good quality wood filler to correct any small gaps or imperfections. After it has dried, she sands the horse again and paints on a grey undercoat. This process is repeated three times to make it very durable. Now the horse is ready for dappling. Using a black water-based acrylic paint, Alison works with a round stippling brush, around 2/3in (17mm) in diameter, to create the stencilled effect. “I might use a larger brush if I am working on one our bigger horses,” she explains. On a new horse she copies the traditional dappling pattern of the Ayres horses. 

She uses a dark red paint to add the nostrils, mouth and inner ears.  “It is a three- to four-day process, including the drying times,” says Alison. Once the painting is finished, the horse is ready to be varnished. She applies a polyurethane oil-based varnish, tinted with a yellow hue to give an aged effect. Again, she repeats the process three times, sanding the horse in between to create a super-smooth finish. 

Glass eyes are inserted into the pre-made sockets. These are sourced from a family firm that has been making glass eyes for 200 years, originally for the teddy bear industry.

The next stage is to add the distinctive flowing mane and tail. Real horse hair is used for this. Customers can choose from light grey, mixed grey, brown or black. “The manes arrive in our workshop with the hair still on the tanned skin,” explains Steve. One horse’s tail provides sufficient hair for two rocking horse manes. The mane is cleaned, shampooed, brushed and cut to suit the horse’s size. Glue and nails are then used to attach it to the neck.  

“Kate, who works with us, really enjoys transforming the manes,” explains Steve. “They feel like silk when she has finished brushing and cleaning them. She often takes them home to give them extra care.”

Ready to ride

Now the horse is ready for its bridle and saddle. These are leather with proper buckles and a steel or brass bit. “Our bridles are made for us by a skilled craftsman from the famous leather-working city of Walsall,” says Alison. “They are removable, and are just like a smaller version of a bridle you’d find on a real horse.” 

Two styles of saddle are available. The sewn or padded saddles, traditional on rocking horses from their earliest days, are fixed to the back of the horse with nails. Steve and Kate often make these themselves in the workshop using an industrial-sized sewing machine to shape and stitch the leather. For the deluxe horses, a removable saddle, complete with stirrup leathers and irons, is handmade in Walsall in the West Midlands.  

Finally, the horse is ready to be placed on to the stand. A hoof rail, a long piece of wood stretching between the front and back legs, is bolted on. There are two rails for each hoof. Swing irons are inserted and the horse is lifted up and placed on to its stand. A metal bearing strip goes under each swing iron and is held in place with a metal cap and four bolts, to ensure that it is secure. “Kate will trim and comb the hair, and check the leather work for any marks,” says Steve. “We then attach a brass breastplate, which is customised with an inscription for each customer and given an individual registration number.”

The horse can then be delivered to its new home. “We do some of the deliveries ourselves, because it is very satisfying to see people’s reactions when their horse arrives,” says Steve. “Customers who choose a rocking horse are always lovely people with a passion for horses. Some people save up for months, or even years, to buy one. It has often been their childhood dream to own a traditional rocking horse. We also have parents buying them for their children as presents, and bridegrooms purchasing them for brides, and vice versa. Our customers are always 100 per cent thrilled with their horses, and that makes all our hard work and attention to detail worthwhile.”

Words: Fiona Cumberbatch Photography: Clive Doyle

The feature about Steve and Alison's rocking horse workshop originally appeared in the Christmas 2015 issue of LandScape.
For back issues click here or to subscribe to LandScape click here

THE ART OF LACE MAKING

For nearly 50 years, Pat Perryman has been creating beautiful works of art in Honiton lace 

Outside, winter is at its height. The leaves have gone from the trees, the east Devon skies are darkening, the light low. Inside a neat home, tucked away from the bustle of daily life, a piece of exquisite lace is slowly being created.

Pat Perryman’s nimble fingers move silently across the curved surface of a blue-clad pillow, weaving bobbins and cotton thread around an array of silver pins. Fraction by fraction, a picture emerges, following the pattern on a card beneath the pins. For hour after patient hour, Pat works towards her finished creation. Eventually, several hundred hours after she started, the work is done, and a new piece of historic Honiton lace is born.

For Pat, making this complex but beautiful piece of lace is a therapeutic labour of love. “If life is stressful, I can sit and do lace and be in another world,” she says. It is something she has been doing for nearly half a century now. Today, she is a seasoned expert, known around the world. 

A natural talent

A trained dressmaker, Pat came to lacemaking by chance. In 1969 she joined a class at the local community college. The mother of two young children, it gave her the opportunity to do something away from the house. 

Her teacher spotted her innate skill as soon as she started. Three years later, the teacher retired and Pat was running the class. “I was the youngest in the class, both in age and experience,” she says. “I had to go into that class and tell them I was the new teacher. It was daunting.”

In the years since then, she has created a prodigious quantity of work. It ranges from tiny, delicate pieces enclosed in pendants to larger work displayed in frames. The majority of her creations are decorative, although some have practical application. A lace parasol, adorned with 24 different butterflies, is redolent of a more feminine age. A sumptuous lace garter made for the wedding of her granddaughter-in-law took 80 hours of dextrous work. To make a wedding veil could take several years. “If you have a five-year-old daughter, you had better start now,” she says.

A Parliamentary task

In 1980 she was asked to make a new Honiton lace jabot, or ornamental neck frill, for the then Speaker of the House of Commons, George Thomas. The pattern was designed by Honiton School’s art teacher, Tom Griffiths. It depicted a portcullis and crown, the flower emblems of the UK’s four countries, plus images inspired by the Devon landscape. It took Pat many hundreds of hours to make, over three years. 

By the time it was finished, a new Speaker, Bernard Weatherill, was in office. He came to Honiton in 1984 to be presented with the jabot. Later that year Pat was invited to the State Opening of Parliament, at which the Speaker wore her unique creation for the first time. At the subsequent reception she was asked to make a pair of matching cuffs. That resulted in a further thousand hours of work over four years.

Project of beauty and skill

Her biggest single project is safely contained in a quilted box. This is an exquisitely beautiful fan, consisting of 11 separate pieces of lace. “I always wanted to make a fan, and I was working on this for about three years,” she says. “I had all sorts of ideas for its design, but was eventually inspired by a piece of lace we have here in Honiton, in Allhallows Museum, called the Treadwin Flounce. 

“Mrs Treadwin was a 19th century Honiton lacemaker. She made the flounce for Queen Victoria’s fourth son, Prince Leopold, the Duke of Albany, for his wedding in 1882 to Princess Helena of Waldeck and Pyrmont. The intricate designs in this flounce inspired my fan.”

She has presented her own work to royalty. When Princess Anne visited Honiton in 2005, Pat gave her a piece of lace with an intricate swan design. It had taken her approximately 350 hours to complete. She also gave the Princess a brooch depicting a lace horseshoe with the initial ‘A’ woven in it.

In 2013 Pat achieved the jewel in the crown of her career. She was awarded the British Empire Medal for Services to the Heritage of Lace-Making in the Queen’s Birthday Honours list.

Today, she continues to teach lacemaking classes. She has also had two books published. One is her New Designs in Honiton Lace, created in collaboration with a lacemaking colleague, Cynthia Voysey. The other is Pat Perryman’s Lace Patterns. Both remain in demand.

The future for lace

For almost half a century Pat has inspired many people to take up the threads. She is delighted that the craft is continuing to thrive. “We still have a class on a Saturday morning for children. It is now taught by one of my former child pupils, and it’s rewarding to see the tradition carried on.” Her enthusiasm for the lace is infectious. For her, it is a task of unstinting dedication to creating works of delicate art that will last for centuries. 

Creating a picture

Making a new piece of Honiton lace is a long process that starts with a design. “The most challenging part of the process is deciding on the design, then preparing it correctly, so it is ready to start working on,” says Pat. “One of the women I teach is a wonderful artist. If I can’t get a drawing quite right, I pass it to her and she sorts it out for me.” 

The design is traced onto tracing paper. Pat then follows this first tracing, putting dots on a second piece around the outline of the design. This second tracing is placed on a piece of oiled Manilla card, a strong card treated with linseed oil. The dots she has made are pierced with a needle, marking the pattern on the card. Pins are placed in the holes on the card, which sits on a lacemaker’s pillow. 

Pat has already wound fine, white, two-ply thread on the ends of the bobbins, slim pieces of turned wood. She is now ready to start a process she describes as weaving the thread with pairs of bobbins round the silver-coloured pins. 

 Each picture is constructed in sections. These vary in size depending on the image that the finished piece depicts. They may be small, just a flower face, or bigger, as with Pat’s fan, which comprises 11 sections in total. 

“Once you have the pattern you need to take time to work out the best place to start,” she says. “Experience helps with this, and the creation of the piece becomes instinctive. The first pin is then inserted, a pair of bobbins hung on it and off you go. It’s like anything else where you cease to think about it after a while. I still remember that moment in a class when I suddenly realised it was coming naturally and I didn’t have to think about it.” 

Slowly, the picture comes to life beneath her hands. The meticulous intricacy of the work demands a very orderly process. Pat is focused and methodical in her work, totally absorbed in
her detailed creation.

The number of pairs of bobbins in use at any one time is dependent on the width of the design at that point. As the design narrows, fewer threads are needed, and Pat reduces the number of pairs of bobbins. “That’s the freedom of Honiton lace. As I work,
I watch the emerging pattern, not what my hands are doing with the bobbins. That way, I can see any mistake immediately. And I’m always working ‘upside down’, looking at what will be the underside of the finished piece.” 

The outlines of the design are created first before the central area is filled in with a criss-cross lacework. This filling is called leadwork, which Pat believes is named after the leaded lights of windows. 

When a section is finished, the pins are removed and the lace taken off the card. The finished piece will be the same size as the pattern on the card beneath it. Finally, the different sections are joined to create the finished picture, with the same thread that was used to make the lace. 

Contact: Allhallows Museum of Lace and Local Antiquities, www.honitonmuseum.co.uk

Tel 01404 44966

Words: Simone Stanbrook-Byrne Photography: Clive Doyle

FROM EWE TO YARN

The arrival of a new flock of sheep led to a thriving enterprise for two sisters, producing hand-dyed wool in a former grain store

In a Warwickshire field, bathed in the spring sunshine, a flock of sheep graze peacefully. Curious, stocky-legged lambs play around their mothers. In among them are two women, checking the flock.  

They are sisters Louise Weetman and Emma Price. Louise is the shepherdess, whose husband Charlie’s family have farmed 75 acres near Kenilworth for five generations. She has been tending sheep for 30 years, since she and Charlie received a flock as a wedding present. Today, Louise and her sheep are part of a knitting yarn enterprise called In the Wool Shed, set up five years ago in 2012 by Emma. 

Together with keen knitter Helen Lambell, the sisters turn fleece from the sheep into yarn that they then colour with natural dyes. They also produce complementary knitting patterns. These range from smocks and sweaters to hats, welly warmers and egg cosies. Although they all pitch in, each has their own area of expertise. Louise is principally responsible for the sheep, Emma is the driving force behind the dyeing and designs, and Helen focuses on knitting and publicity.

“I had a passion for natural fibres as a little girl,” says Emma. “I remember being in Wales when I was about seven, and looking for the perfect sheepskin rug for my birthday. I love the smell, the humbleness of the fibres, and the fact the fleece took months to grow. I started to spin and dye as a hobby when I was 16.” She ended up with an accountancy job in London, but gave that up to go travelling round India. There, she set up a business producing hand-spun silk yarns. On her return to Britain, she did a fine art degree, which gave her the confidence to put her skills into a new venture. 

“I was hand-spinning and dyeing at home. Then, when Louise got a new flock of Lleyn sheep five years ago, I said to her that I would love a wool shed to work in,” she says. “The Lleyn wool is white, so I knew it would be good for dyeing. I imagined a beautiful, wooden-cabin scenario, but she said she had an old container! We painted it up for an open studio event, and the business has grown from there in a slow, organic way.” 

Emma did some work in the container, but it was not practical for dyeing. Instead, she moved her studio into the farm’s old grain store. “We made do with whatever was around. That’s what has made it charming, and is why people love it. Our philosophy has been that the work has to wrap around our families. I’m a single mum, and I work at it all the time, while Louise and Helen dip in when they can.”

Flock and fleece

The farm’s 80 ewes produce approximately 90 lambs each April. “They’re great mothers and they lamb easily outside,” says Louise. “Each sheep is different. Some will come up to you, others won’t. You might find one limping, so you have to get them all in to sort out their feet. Next, you have to worm them, then, before you know it, you’re shearing. We get a team in to do that, but we roll and sort the fleeces. I love being outside, at one with nature, rather than being stuck in an office.”

Her sheep provide In The Wool Shed with approximately 70 per cent of its wool. “As the fleeces are coming off, I choose the ones I want,” says Emma. “That’s about 40 per cent of them. Their wool is typically hard and crispy, so it predominantly comes off the lambs that are a just over a year old because that is softer. I’m going for the feel. It’s still too itchy to wear next to the skin, though, so I buy in other British-spun yarn as well, such as wool from bluefaced Leicester sheep, which is much softer and dyes beautifully.”  

Dyeing the wool

The upstairs of the dye studio has creaking floorboards, while exposed rafters are stuffed with bits of fleece to keep out the cold and draughts. Skeins of newly dyed wool dry outside under the eaves. Inside, a row of steel pans containing different coloured dyes are lined up on a workbench, each with a gas burner underneath. Storage jars on a shelf contain the raw materials for the dyes, known as the dye stuff. 

A sack is stuffed with clumps of raw fleece from last year’s shearing. When she is ready to dye a batch of wool, Emma first washes the fleece in discarded bath water. This cleanses it of residue from chemical sprays, such as fly repellent. It is dried on racks in the studio, then bagged up and sent for spinning to the Natural Fibre Company in Cornwall. After a year of spinning the wool herself, she realised that it was too time-consuming to be economically viable.

The spinners wash the wool again to remove the oily lanolin then send it back to the farm in 100g skeins. Sacks of these skeins sit on the floor. Emma re-skeins them more loosely, then soaks them in collected rainwater for 24 hours. Doing this helps them take the dye more evenly.

She works at her dye vats for three days a week, doing approximately 10 skeins a day. Before dyeing the wool, a mordant or bridging agent is created. This is a mix of alum crystals, cream of tartar and hot water, that allows the wool to absorb a dye. The mix ratio depends on the particular dye. The wet wool is put in once the solution is cold so it doesn’t shrink.
It is brought to the boil and simmered for an hour, then left to cool overnight. 

Natural colours

Emma uses natural dyes which produce a subtle range of shades within each ball of wool, making each knitted garment unique. By doing this she is continuing a tradition which dates back thousands of years. “The variegated colours are what make natural dyes so beautiful,” says Emma. “They have a depth and character that you don’t get through mass production, and I’m passionate about promoting that.”

She uses six main dyes, all from British suppliers. Logwood is a bark that gives a purple shade. Cochineal, which produces pink, comes from crushed South American insects that need to be soaked, sieved, boiled and strained first. Dried weld, a weed, and fustic, in the form of wood chips, produce different yellow tones. Madder root from the Middle East is used for an orange-red colour. With these five dyes, the dye stuff is mixed with water and strained. The wool from the mordant is then put into the liquid dye and simmered.

The sixth dye, indigo, is used to produce blue. It comes from the leaves of a cabbage-like tropical plant, and is bought in powder form. It behaves differently from other dyes, and doesn’t require the use of a mordant first. 

“With indigo, you have to watch the vat the whole time,” says Emma. “Too much heat can affect the colour, so I take it off the burner from time to time. To get a deep blue, I have to dip the wool in about 10 times, the first dip for 15 minutes, then for 10 minutes each time.” When the wool first emerges from the indigo dye, it is green in colour, but quickly changes to blue as it reacts with oxygen. 

Dyes can be manipulated to achieve different shades, and Emma enjoys experimenting. Quantities, temperature and length of time in the vat can be varied. Rusty nails can be added to dull a colour. To produce green, wool is dipped in yellow first, then added to the indigo vat. Emma’s stained fingers betray the colour of the dye she has been using.

Once the desired tones are achieved, the dyed wool is hung to dry from the roof beams. Next, it is washed with soap until the colour stops running out, and rinsed three times. Once dry again, it is wound into balls of 100g, 50g and 20g, using a table-mounted hand winder. It is fed onto the winder from a yarn umbrella, a frame that holds the loosened skein and stops it becoming tangled. Some is kept in skeins for larger projects.

Knitting patterns

The women thrash out pattern ideas round Louise’s kitchen table. “We have different approaches,” says Emma. “Helen is more into frills, and Louise and I like cloth to be straight and drapey. My inspiration is uncut cloth from India. I made a hooded top with pockets, called The Crafter, and it sold well, so that inspired me to make other utility tops. I’ve now made one called The Gardener, a longer tunic with deep pockets.”

Helen came on board after attending one of the sisters’ open studios three years ago. A former journalist who runs a PR business, she has been an enthusiastic knitter since childhood. When she met Emma and Louise, she was making tea cosies for a tea specialist in Edinburgh. “I find knitting very therapeutic,” she says. “I enjoy improvising. I have a rough idea, and see how it goes. Emma does smart utility clothing and I’ll do floaty mohair crop tops. I love texture, colour and natural things. We have a lovely time together, and I’m like a pretend sister.”

Helen’s egg cosy design was the first to be sold in kit form once they realised customers wanted patterns to go with their yarn. “It was coming up to Easter and my sister had eggs on the farm, so we decided egg cosies would be a good, simple idea,” says Emma.

Emma does most of the designing for the patterns. It takes about a month to come up with an idea for a jumper, make the pattern and knit it. “I start off with a rough design in a sketch book, then I make a mock-up of the shape in brown paper. I then knit a tension square to work out the size. That tells you how many stitches and rows you need on a particular size of needle. Then we start knitting, and I write most of the details down afterwards.” The patterns and colourways are then checked by all three of them before being offered for sale.

Unique shades

The container, the original wool shed, now acts as a shop for visitors from knitting groups. Emma also holds spinning workshops in it. Inside, baskets and crates display an inviting jumble of colour-coordinated balls of wool, and there is a hanging rail of sample tops and scarves. The women also exhibit at wool festivals.

“The slowness of what we do is precious,” says Emma. “I can lose myself for days with my dye pots. I have the radio on, and
I dip in and out. The process fascinates me. I love ethical, slow fashion, such as fishermen’s jumpers, which were made of hardy British yarn. People just re-knitted the bits that wore out. At a time when everything gets thrown away, my campaign is to create something that lasts.” 

Contact: www.inthewoolshed.com

Words Caroline Rees: Photography: Clive Doyles

The Fabric of Memories

Using vintage oddments of textile, artist Louise O’Hara constructs images that evoke the traditional British countryside scenes she visited as a chile

The purples and greens of a moorland landscape start to come alive in a patchwork of lace, silk and paper shapes. Artist Louise O’Hara reaches for a pencil to outline the position of a ramshackle gate before threading a needle
and starting to sew. She works quickly, the stitches adding another dimension to her design. 

Colour and texture abound in Louise’s small but fascinating studio in the heart of a Cheshire village. Vintage fabrics spill out
of boxes, acrylic inks and reels of thread cluster on wooden workbenches among pots of paint, glue and brushes. Lengths of cloth hang off chairs and bales of coloured paper are stacked under tables. Embossed black-and-white walls are lined with books, cabinets and tinted glass. An iron and crystal chandelier draped with ribboned hearts dangles from the ceiling. 

Here Louise uses mixed-media art to portray the light and textures of the world around her. She crafts paintings and collages that capture the spirit of countryside and seascape. Her work is often in bright, uplifting tones but also reflects darker, moodier days.  

Remembering places

The majority of her pictures are based on places she has visited, often as a child. “We spent many family holidays in the Lake District and Yorkshire, and that archetypal cottage scene features in a lot of my work,” she says. “My pictures tend to be constructed of a collection of memories I have of different places I may have visited many times.”

Concepts of the flow of time and continuity of human relationships are the centrepiece of her work. This is captured in the way she builds layers of paint and in her use of vintage fabrics. “I don’t like using new materials. I want to use old,” she says. “Because they have been used, there is a history there, a trace of all the people, all the conversations that have gone by. I find that exciting.”  

Louise is always on the lookout for materials to use in her pictures. The studio is home to a vast collection of period clothes, fabric, beads, quilts and crochet at the studio. Some she may cut up or re-dye to achieve a particular colour or effect. She often produces
a collection of pictures with similar themes and colours. To do this, she may spend two days dyeing fabrics and paper with a combination of ink and paints. 

Many of her vintage textiles come from secondhand shops. Friends and clients, aware of her fascination, also send her items. “People having a clear-out send me their granny’s old scarves, gloves and cardigans,” she says. “I think it’s important that these things aren’t just thrown away but can live on, reclaimed, in a new guise.
I got a parcel the other day from America and I cried when I opened it. It was full of buttons, Victorian ones, glass ones… It was absolutely wonderful.”

Building up layers

Louise uses a camera to record the landscapes and buildings she visits. If there is time she may even make rough sketches. “A piece will develop from a photograph, or sections of a photograph, and sections of memories,” she says. “I might see a photo and think, I like the colour of that field. I then seek to re-create it. And that willdictate the materials I use, the paint and possible fabric, the size and shape of the finished design.” 

For a painting, she starts by applying modelling paste or paint to a canvas, creating a rich, uneven substrate. Then layer upon layer of paints, inks or oil pastels are added. This creates an undulating, tactile surface out of which a landscape gradually emerges. Next, she builds up the body of the drawing. White cottages are clustered against beguiling seas and fresh blue skies. Streams wind their way across mist-wreathed moors. Always there is a sense that home is waiting. 

Textile pieces begin with Louise lightly glueing then machine stitching her carefully chosen fabrics to sheets of watercolour paper. Different materials are added to create further ideas of form and flow. Pieces of paper, wax, wool, buttons and beads create flower-filled meadows, boulder-strewn fells, the shifting waves and eddies of sullen grey seas. Scenes may be embellished with rows of stitching to emphasise detail. A soldering iron creates burns or a leaden effect. Stencilled text from songs or poems relevant to the landscape or seascape adds to the storyline imbued in a picture. She may include scraps of handwritten letters found in charity shops, bus tickets or other ephemera. As she works, the picture becomes three-dimensional and tactile. 

“The sense of being able to reach out and touch the scene is an important part of my work,” she says. “But the textiles are delicate and to protect them I always frame the pictures under glass. My framer makes double-mounted frames for me to accommodate the thickness and layers.”  

Beauty in imperfection

It can take several weeks to finish a picture, not least because she usually works on two or three at the same time. “I’ll go into the studio and one piece will grab at me, and I’ll work on that particular one for a while,” she says. “Then I’ll leave it. I like to reflect on a piece and give it time to settle in between sittings. This is usually up to two weeks.

“If a picture doesn’t work well for some reason, I may cut it up and then use the canvas pieces in another. It makes me see things in a different way. I am also a great believer in serendipity. If some ink gets spilled on a picture accidentally I’ll go with it and see where it takes me.”

Another defining feature of Louise’s work is the philosophy of ‘beauty in imperfection’. This was an idea
she first encountered when doing her MA at Manchester University. “I photograph battered walls and threadbare fabrics,” she says. “I love the layers and depth they lend to a piece of work. All have a story to tell. There are marks and qualities in worn-out things you cannot reproduce.” 

As part of her course, Louise took photographs of paint peeling from a door. These then created a pattern more reminiscent of falling leaves, which were incorporated in a collection of scarves, cuffs and collars.

The finished piece

Confessing to a tendency towards obsession, Louise often pores over one little part of a picture until it is right. “I know when something else is needed in a picture,” she says. “It will pull at me until I’ve fixed it. Over the years I have developed my techniques and now know how to effect a change.”

Finishing a piece of work always brings great satisfaction, but there is the immediate impulse to start another. “I love what I do but I’m very driven,” she says. “There’s so much to explore.”

She believes her work appeals to a human sense of place. “People seem to like the sense of nostalgia. My pictures are reminiscent of places they have been, or perhaps would like to go. My paintings are not harsh. Although they can be moody, they are gentle to look at. And there’s so much in there, you always see something else.” 

People do ask her to do pictures of specific places they know, or to use fabrics that were part of their lives. “I’m happy to do that, but I prefer it if the viewer sees a picture and thinks ‘oh gosh, that looks like such and such a place’. That means my memories are triggering their memories. I’d like them to have that sort of relationship with a piece.” 

With major exhibitions on the horizon, Louise has never been busier. “I suppose I’m outgrowing this studio. I have so much stuff now,” she says. “But I can’t imagine moving; this house has so many memories for me. I’m a collector – of memories and of time and of objects. I’ll always be this way.”  

A life in art

Louise has always painted. At a young age she felt a connection to the work of artists such as Kurt Schwitters, an early 20th century artist, typographer and writer. Another influence was Joseph Cornell, an artist and sculptor who was an exponent of assemblage. She was inspired by the way they gave new life to discarded and broken objects. 

After school she did a degree in fashion and textiles at Liverpool John Moores University.
“I loved it,” she says. “But afterwards I was totally burned out and decided I needed to step away.” She became an art teacher and had two children but all the while found the time to paint. “In 2014 I decided I was split in too many directions. I took the plunge and became an artist full time. I wanted to show my girls they could carve their own path in life and that sometimes it is worth taking a risk.”

Contact: www.louiseohara.co.uk

Words: Diane Wardle Photography: Clive Doyle

Threads of Time

Using techniques that date back hundreds of years, Susie Gillespie weaves linen into subtle patterns.

Deep in the Devon countryside, a weaver is busy creating fabrics and yarn that hark back to a time long predating her 15th century barn. The linen cushions she weaves are inspired by ancient fabrics woven by early textile makers. Subtle geometric patterns are created in one or two colours, their muted tones reminiscent of a time gone by. Larger, wall-hung pieces are also inspired by prehistoric textiles and the ancient process of weaving. 

Much of the visual interest of her work derives from the slight imperfections in the hand-spun yarns she uses. The differing textures introduced during the weaving add to the unaffected simplicity and appeal. 

Inspired by the past

Weaver Susie Gillespie has long been fascinated by archaeology, an interest reflected in her work. She worked at the Oxford Archaeological Unit for several years. “I was keen on doing conservation work but I struggled with the chemistry,” she says. 

It was during this time that she fell in love with Coptic textiles. These Egyptian fabrics are some of the oldest known surviving textiles and can date from as early as the 3rd century AD. People were often buried in these fabrics, which then survived because the dry climate helped preserve them. 

As a child Susie loved making things with her hands. Working in archaeology failed to fulfil her need to be creative. Instead, she decided to study a degree in Structural Textiles at Leicester’s De Montfort University. “Textiles brought together all my feelings about making things with being creative and artistic,” she says.

Her BA was followed by an MA in Woven Art. Then, in 1995, a grant from the Theo Moorman Trust for Weavers helped her set up in business. She bought her first loom and since then has gradually built up her practice. 

It is now 20 years since Susie started working as a weaver. She relishes the ability to work doing something that gives her so much pleasure. “I often feel a bit guilty as I have a lovely time,” she laughs. “I find weaving both emotionally and aesthetically satisfying.”

Her woven fabrics are influenced by her enduring love of the early textiles. Like her own work, these were mainly woven in linen with small areas of pattern. “I love the heavy plain linen tunics the Coptics wore and the detailed intricate tapestry bands around necks and arms,” she says. She takes great pleasure in using the same ancient techniques and materials as those used
by the ancient weavers. 

At the same time, inspiration also comes from objects surrounding her home. These include field and building outlines, shapes of barns, textures of stone and cob walls. 

“They are all materials which carry a human element, things that are worn out and have a feeling of history and of people in the past,” she explains. “I am very keen on simplicity and use mainly plain weave with everything done by hand.” Pieces often look slightly aged, in a muted range of colours. “I’m drawn to subtle colour palettes as I love things that look old.” 

Most of her pieces are woven in linen. “It’s perfect to work as it’s strong and I can use it to get the tension really tight on the loom,” she says. She appreciates its sheen and the way it can look different depending on the light. Her preference is for hand-spun linen yarn as this contributes to what she describes as ‘the clothiness’ of her weavings. “You lose all the subtle variations of colour and texture with machine-spun yarns,” she explains. 

To get everything exactly as she wants it, Susie now produces some of her own linen for her artworks. She is unable to make enough for all her work, however, so still has to buy in yarn. Hand-spun linen is not easy to source, which is why she was delighted to find an antique batch in a derelict weaving shop some years ago. 

Creating fabric

All her work is woven on a pine floor loom, measuring approximately 6ft 6in (2m) wide and the same high. Before starting on a new piece, the loom has to be set up. First job is to tie in the warps, the parallel yarns that provide the structure of the cloth. Each one has to be threaded through a heddle. This is alooped wire or cord with an eye in the centre which a warp thread passes through. There is one heddle for each warp thread. Threading them can be a time-consuming job as one of Susie’s cushions has 300 warp threads. 

When all are in place, they run from the back to the front of the loom. The threads are tied onto the warp beam at the back of the loom and a wooden bar, known as a cloth beam, at the
front. It is a day’s work to set up a loom to make a 14in (35cm) wide cushion cover. 

The weaving is done using her feet to work floor pedals. These move the different shafts, which separate the warp threads to create a gap known as a shed. It is through this gap that the shuttle is passed. The coloured weft is wound on to the shuttle. As it is passed along the loom the thread unwinds, leaving a line across the warp threads. The weft is then pushed down by a beater, which Susie pulls towards her. It is then passed back the other way, gradually building up a dense structure of thread running over and under the warps. 

A different weft thread is used to introduce a new colour. Each new colour or weft in the pattern is on a separate shuttle. A cushion cover can take up to two days to weave depending on the amount of detail. When the weaving is finished, the piece is cut off the loom. 

The loose warp ends hanging from the weaving are stitched up to stop them fraying. Sometimes these ends are turned into decorative tassels. The woven panel is then hand sewn onto a piece of plain linen backing to finish the cushion cover.

Some weavers draw detailed designs before they start work, known as cartoons, but Susie prefers to work more instinctively. “Ideas on paper don’t translate particularly well into my weaving. They can help, but it is more a combination of having ideas and then doing it and seeing where it leads you,” she says. Working in this way allows her the freedom to respond to the material taking shape on the loom. 

Her work is very much about the weaving itself, rather than designing. She takes pleasure in the actual making process. “I love the act of weaving, the slowness of its growth and the feel of the yarn on my fingers.”   

Flax: from seed to yarn 

Three years ago, Susie started producing her own flax to spin into linen yarn. She grows the variety bred for fibre, Linum usitatissimum. This has long stems, up to 3ft 3in (1m) high, and fewer seeds than the type bred for linseed oil. The flax is grown from seed in a polytunnel, which protects the long stems from wind damage. Planted in spring, it is harvested in August. Once harvested the plants are dried in the polytunnel for approximately two weeks. The seedheads are then removed from the stems with a comb called a ripple.

The next stage in the process is called retting. The stems are soaked in water, which encourages the pectins that hold the fibres to the woody core to break down so that they can be easily released. The retting flax must be carefully monitored. “You have to test it to see if the fibres are coming free but you can’t leave them in the water too long as they lose their strength,” says Susie. The process normally takes up to two weeks. Once finished, the stems are dried again.

The flax fibres are then separated out from the stems using a breaker. This wooden machine is approximately 3ft (1m) wide and resembles a guillotine. It crushes the wooden core of the stems, releasing the fibres. Any remaining woody fragments are removed using a wooden knife known as a scutching knife. The fibres are then combed through with a hackle to create a smooth length of flax, 25in (65cm) long, ready for spinning. 

The yarn is wound onto a distaff, a wooden stick approximately 3ft long, and then fed onto the spinning wheel. Susie turns the spinning wheel with floor pedals while feeding the flax onto the wheel. The process twists the separate flax fibres into one continuous thread, which is long enough and strong enough to weave. 

A self-taught spinner, she is fascinated by this ancient process. “I love spinning. It’s amazing to think that people did exactly the same thing in the olden days. My mother gave me a hank of antique yarn and it looks identical to the stuff I produce. It has the same texture and colour even though it’s over 100 years old.” As well as the pleasure she gets from the process, the hand-spun yarns add an important aesthetic element to her work. “I love using the linen I spin because since I’m not a very experienced weaver, my yarns are quite coarse and irregular. But without the odd bump you might as well be using machine spun yarn.”

Contact: www.susiegillespie.com

Words: Diana Wardle Photography: Jeremy Walker

A WOODTURNER AND A GILDER COMBINE THEIR SKILLS

PAIR PRODUCE CURVED WOODEN BOWLS BURNISHED WITH PRECIOUS METALS

A bed of spiralling wood shavings forms a dome on the floor of woodturner Richard Mills’ workshop in Kent. Clamped to a motorised lathe is a partly-turned wooden bowl. A film of fine dust clings to the timber and tools on surrounding surfaces. The lathe clatters into action when the motor is turned on, and the bowl spins round rhythmically. More curled slivers of wood collect on Richard’s arm as he holds his bowl gouge against the revolving wood. The sharp point of this long scoop-shaped chisel slices small ridges off the timber.

In contrast, his friend and business partner Lenore Zavitz works at a quiet table in her home, 20 minutes’ drive away. Here, she gilds the wooden bowls Richard has turned and polished. The gold leaf she uses is delicate and ultra-fine, requiring a clean, moisture-less and draught-free space.

Richard has been woodturning since he was 12. “My father is a carpenter and I took an interest when he bought a lathe, so he taught me,” he says. During the day he works in the City of London. His evenings and weekends, however, are spent woodturning. His aim is to be able to pursue his craft full-time. “I love the beauty you find in wood,” he says. “I get to see all sorts of colours inside the wood that other people never see.”

Lenore trained at the London School of Picture and Frame Conservation. For nine years she worked as an oil-painting and frame restorer. The gilding techniques she uses on Richard’s bowls are those she uses on picture frames.

The pair met eight years ago, but only formed their company making gilded bowls in 2014. “When the economy slowed down, there wasn’t a lot of restoration work, so I was looking to broaden my range,” says Lenore. “Richard often gave me bowls as presents, and I thought they would be nice with gold leaf on them because curved surfaces complement the gilding best. He didn’t want me to cover the grain at first but, once he saw one, he was sold on the idea.”

The company’s name, Moth and Mirror, comes from the combination of wood and metal. “The moth represents the organic material, which is the wood, and the mirror represents the reflective gilding,” explains Lenore.

Sourcing the wood

They use a wide variety of woods for the bowls. Richard keeps an eye out for spare lumber from any trees he sees being felled. He points down the lane to a house where a large cedar once grew. “I used to see it when I was growing up,” he says. “Then one day I heard a chainsaw. It was being cut down, and the tree surgeon gave me some offcuts.”

Newly-felled wood is chopped into manageable pieces, which aids drying, and the ends sealed with paraffin wax. “Moisture escapes faster from the ends, so the wax enables it to exit in a uniform manner. That helps to stop it cracking,” says Richard. “Then I store it in ventilated garden sheds until it’s dry. It dries at a rate of about one inch every year, but that depends on species, thickness and conditions. A moisture meter is a valuable tool. If it has a moisture content of more than 15 per cent it will split and warp after it is turned.” 

The majority of the wood he uses comes from timber specialists. It has been kiln dried and cut into rough rounds, called blanks, ready for turning. 

The bowl Richard is creating today is made with wood from a London plane tree. This is known as lacewood, because the pale, intricate patterns in the grain resemble lace. “It’s gorgeous stuff,” says Richard. “I like the way the wood talks to you. You’ve picked the area you want to work, and dried it for several years. Then, as you’re turning, you come across defects and knots you want to cut out and others you want to keep. All that leads to the shape needed. I love big natural splits that happen in the growing. They add an eye-catching feature and make it unique. If the bark is nice, I might keep that as a natural edge on a bowl.”

Sometimes, however, a split can be detrimental. He has suffered a black eye and dented the workshop door when bowls have flown off the lathe when his gouge has caught a split in a piece of wood.

Turning the bowl

Richard’s bowls range in diameter from 3in to 24in (8-60cm). Once a piece of wood is dry, he cuts it into a rough circular shape on a bandsaw. The centre of the area to be cut is marked and a circle scratched with a pair of verniers, a measuring compass. Then the middle of one surface is flattened with a sander or plane. This will be the bottom of the bowl. A face-plate is screwed on to hold it on the lathe. This is only temporary and the screw holes will disappear when the inside is turned.

Most of the work is done using a sharp ½in (16mm) bowl gouge. For small bowls, a ¼in (7mm) gouge is used. To keep the tool steady, a hinged metal rest is fixed in place approximately ⅓in (1cm) in front of the section of bowl he is cutting. As he works, Richard pushes the shaft of the bowl gouge firmly against the rest with one hand. He holds the handle equally firmly with his other hand.

“A bowl is naturally pleasing to the eye, and I like them chunky with fat rims,” he says. This lacewood bowl measures 15½in (39cm) across. It will have a 3in (7.6cm) flat rim with a 1in (2.5cm) U-shaped rim in the centre of that.

Richard starts with the base. Turning on the motor, the bowl starts to spin. In the early stages, a slow speed is needed as the shape is uneven and rocks the lathe. The gouge makes a fast hissing sound as it slices into the timber. Shavings pile up as Richard moves the tool from the base towards the rim to form the bowl’s curved outer profile.

“I make small light cuts, taking off a very thin layer at a time,” he says. “Once it’s circular and smooth, you can turn up the speed, which allows a quicker cut.” He keeps refining it until he is satisfied.

Before the inside of the bowl can be worked, it needs to be reversed and clamped to the lathe. A chuck, a metal clamp with jaws, is used to do this. First an indent is cut in the base to hold the chuck. This will also act as a stand for the finished bowl. Richard cuts the recess with the bowl gouge initially. He then uses a skew chisel, which has an angled blade, to cut the inner edge with precision.

The surface is planed so the rim will be flat. Richard then digs out the middle. He makes deep cuts with the bowl gouge, working from the outside in. Once that is complete, he cuts a U-shaped channel within the wider flat rim of the bowl. This is the section that will be gilded.

Some of the bowls are fully gilded on the inside and some are gilded in special rims such as this one. “It’s simply a case of artistic preference,” says Lenore.

Finishing touches

“Once I’ve finished with the tools, I sand the bowl, working through at least six grades of sandpaper from coarse to fine,” says Richard. “I hand-hold it against the turning bowl to remove tool marks so you see just the shape and grain.” A small cloud of sawdust forms around the bowl as it spins.

The friction created by sanding produces heat. Too much can cause micro-fracturing in the wood, which can not be eliminated, unlike some small natural splits, which can be glued. As soon as he feels his hand getting warm, Richard pulls the sandpaper away.

“Next, I rub on sanding sealant with a rag. That brings out the grain a bit more and fills any minor imperfections. When that’s dry, I go over it with very fine steel wool, then apply wax polish to help resist finger marks. I then hold a rag against the spinning bowl to give a high sheen. It feels like silk at the end.” The bowl takes up to five hours to complete.

 “Turning is very therapeutic and relaxing,” he says. “My favourite bit is sealing and waxing it, because you really see the grain, which can be stunning.”

Golden glow

Now the bowl is ready for gilding. Richard and Lenore meet every week to discuss ideas and sketch possible designs. He nearly always has a batch of bowls ready for gilding. The actual number can vary from three to 20 a week, depending on their sizes.

There are two forms of gilding, oil and water. Lenore uses oil gilding. “I don’t do water gilding because it requires layers and layers of preparation using animal glue dissolved in water,” she says. “The advantage is that you can burnish it to a high sheen afterwards. But there is an extra cost for the time it takes.”

Oil gilding involves brushing oil size onto the dish or rim of the bowl. Size is a form of slow-drying adhesive made from boiled-down linseed oil, which has been used by gilders for centuries. “You leave it to go off for about an hour, though the time depends on environmental factors. I never gild on a rainy morning because it’s too humid and won’t go off. On a sunny morning, it can go off in 10 minutes.

“If the bowl is still too wet, the gold ends up a mess and will probably come off. If it’s too dry, it won’t adhere. I keep touching it until it just catches the skin. That’s when it’s ready. I use the back of my finger so I don’t leave prints.” 

She uses 24-carat gold leaf, bought from British gilding suppliers, in 3in (8cm) squares. It used to be beaten with hammers until it was thin. Now, it is flattened with rollers. 

“All the yellow gold I use is double thickness,” she says. “It handles better, doesn’t curl up on itself as much, and you get a better surface. But even that is so thin you can see light through it. You’re intimidated by the gold at first because it is the purest gold you can get.”

Great care is needed. Opening a door, laughing or coughing can cause the leaf to wrinkle or blow away.

As well as gold leaf, Lenore uses silver, copper and champagne gold. “The copper leaf is a bit thicker because copper is cheaper,” she says. “It has a warm smoulder as opposed to the flame that gold produces. Like silver, it needs sealing with clear gilding lacquer because it will go black exposed to the air. Champagne gold is 22.5-carat gold with palladium in it, and has a warmer hue than yellow gold.”

Gilding process

To gild the U-rim of the lacewood bowl, Lenore cuts the leaf into squares the size of large postage stamps on a suede gilding cushion. The cushion makes it easier to cut, and the leaf does not adhere to suede. She makes sure she never touches the gold by hand. “Getting to grips with not being able to touch it is very difficult. It will stick to your fingers and pretty much everything else.”

Instead, she uses small, flat, badger-hair brushes, called tips, to apply the leaf. “The gold has to adhere to the tip, so I put Vaseline on the back of my hand, then touch it with the tip before I pick up the leaf.” She lifts each piece and gently positions it in the U-rim. It clings on contact, but she uses a blusher brush to tamp it into place. This process is repeated until the rim is covered with gold, and takes over an hour. Two more layers are applied in the same way. The bowl is left to dry overnight between applications. The excess on the edge is removed carefully with a scalpel and steel wool.

Now, the wooden bowl gets its final polish. The base is then imprinted with their maker’s mark, a moth in a circle, using a specially-made branding iron.

Satisfaction guaranteed

“Gold is fabulously beautiful. If you leave it alone, it will be brilliant for hundreds of years,” says Lenore. “I start to move more slowly when I use it. There’s a delicate flow to the process that is quite meditative. We both have a similar artistic vision and a strong sense of what a piece is going to be like as soon as it’s on Richard’s lathe.”

The results are desirable timeless objects, handmade from natural materials using ancient techniques.

Words: Caroline Rees Photography: Clive Doyle

The feature about gilded wooden bowls originally appeared in the Christmas 2016 issue of LandScape.
For back issues click here or to subscribe to LandScape click here

PRECIOUS METALS ARE USED TO CREATE JEWELLERY REFLECTING NATURE

SURREY JEWELLER CAROLINE BROOK CAPTURES THE DELICATE DETAIL OF AN ACORN IN SILVER

In a quiet corner of a family home on the edge of the Surrey Hills, a replica of an acorn is being shaped in silver. The perfectly proportioned nut, still in its cup, was a chance find during a stroll on nearby Headley Heath. Now it is being recreated, a long-lasting reminder of its autumnal perfection.

Working on the acorn is jeweller Caroline Brook. Accompanied only by the background murmur of the radio, she makes gold and silver pieces inspired by nature. “I love the work,” she says. “I like the idea of the permanence of what I make, and the fact people nearly always buy it for a reason, usually as a gift.”

Perfecting skills

After leaving school, Caroline worked in a bank. It was only when she was in her early 30s that she finally succumbed to her love of making things with her hands. She enrolled in a series of evening classes. “I signed up for sculpture, but the class was cancelled, so I ended up on the jewellery course. I was completely hooked from the very first day,” she says. “I have always liked detail, so I fell in love with the tools, such as the tiny files and tiny saw blades. I appreciated the way the metal was so malleable that you could just form it to create anything.”

She attended evening classes for three years, then was offered work experience in London with a Hatton Garden jeweller. Initially, she helped out with paperwork, but was soon working on the jewellery. Caroline ended up staying there for seven years, serving what was in effect an apprenticeship. “It was a fantastic environment, being in a real workshop and learning from a master,” she says.

Working space

Today, 20 years on from her first course, she works from home in her peaceful studio space. Here, she has a traditional jeweller’s bench. Taller than a work bench, it allows the craftsperson to sit tall, without hunching over the work surface. It has a curved indentation on which sit clamped tools and a jeweller’s peg. This is a wedge of wood on which the jeweller places the metal being worked on.

Beneath, there is a drawer designed to catch any pieces of scrap metal or gold dust. This can then be melted down and re-used. There are boxes of tools with wooden handles and a series of blow torches. A section of beech tree trunk was found on a walk on the heath. “A beech tree had been cut down and pieces were left,” says Caroline. “It is perfect for hammering and punching metal, as it absorbs the shock.”

Capturing beauty

She makes a range of jewellery including rings, bracelets, pendants and cufflinks. Almost all her pieces have their roots in nature and the gentle Surrey countryside surrounding her home. “I have always been attracted to nature. I walk every day with my dog and watch the seasons come and go,” she says. “I search for objects and pick things up that appeal to me like tiny acorns, twigs and branches or pretty stones. I really enjoy the search for that special piece.

“I picked this acorn up because the detail was incredible. It was a lovely size and very delicate. I liked the volume of the cup, its texture and the way it’s quite a deep cup with a little acorn in the middle,” she explains.

To turn the acorn into a silver pendant, Caroline has to make a clay mould. This allows her to create a cast of the nut that accurately reproduces all its detail. “I have the skills to make my own version, but what appeals to me is the idea of preserving a piece of nature forever. I want to capture its beauty in precious metal,” she says. Casting highlights the intricacy of the natural detail on objects. “You don’t realise the lovely texture on an acorn cup until you see it cast.”

Pouring silver

The next stage is to prepare the silver. For this piece, she uses sterling silver, an alloy containing 92.5 per cent silver by weight and 7.5 per cent other metals, usually copper. She prefers to work with fine silver, which is almost 99 per cent pure. “It is very malleable with a nice white colour. But it is softer, so not as good for this type of piece,” she says.

The metal is heated using a blow torch, and becomes liquid after approximately five minutes. Caroline then quickly pours the metal into the mould. This is very tricky. The silver hardens the moment the heat is removed. If the pouring is not timed correctly, the mould can be ruined. If that happens, the process has to start again. The metal can be melted down and re-used, but the burnt areas of clay have to be thrown away and a new mould created.

The silver acorn is removed from its clay casing and the finishing process started. First, Caroline removes the sprue, the stem created by the remaining metal in the pouring channel. A piercing saw with a very fine blade is used to do this. The rough edge left by the cut is then smoothed with a fine file, without removing any of the surface detail.

Finishing off

To make the silver acorn into a pendant, Caroline attaches a jump ring, the little silver loop through which the chain is threaded. This is made from silver wire and is neatly soldered to the base of the acorn. The soldering can be a fiddly procedure, but one that she enjoys. “I have endless patience, and love working with small things,” she says.

She cuts small pieces of solder to fasten the jump ring on the acorn. These are applied to both the base of the cup and the jump ring, and then the area is heated. For this fine work, she uses a traditional jeweller’s mouth. This involves blowing through a rubber tube, controlling the flame with her breath. The solder has a lower melting point than the silver, so the flame melts it but leaves the precious metal untouched. The melted solder acts as glue, joining the jump ring to the acorn.

The soldering work leaves a dark discolouration created by oxidisation. An acid compound called pickle is used to remove this. The silver is added to a mix of pickle and water in an old slow cooker. It is then gently heated for approximately four minutes. When the silver is taken out, all the black oxide has disappeared.

Final touches

The final stage of the process is polishing. This turns the whitish finish into shining silver. Caroline polishes the acorn by hand using a fine mop head made of lambs’ wool attached to a pendant motor. This mechanically rotates the mop head, allowing the polish to be applied evenly. The process takes 20 minutes. 

Hand-polishing allows her to retain the all-important contrast between the smooth acorn and its minutely dimpled cup. Once the polishing is finished, the acorn pendant is threaded with a chain and is ready to wear. 

It takes a full day to make this tiny, delicate acorn pendant, for Caroline time well spent. “I always feel that I need to make things with my hands, and my hands just want to work,” she says. The detailed work involved in making jewellery particularly appeals to her, but she also enjoys making something special for other people. “I often hear the stories behind pieces such as engagement rings. People like to tell me their stories and I like to hear them,” she says. 

“I love the fact that my pieces are something that people will wear and cherish for a long time.”

Words: Diana Woolf Photography: Clive Doyle

The feature about Caroline Brook's nature-inspired jewellery originally appeared in the Nov / Dec 2016 issue of LandScape.
For back issues click here or to subscribe to LandScape click here

TEXTILE ARTIST INSPIRED BY COUNTRYSIDE

Amanda Richardson creates vibrant collages in her Cornwall studio 

Large windows flood Amanda Richardson’s studio near Land’s End with light. The airy space in the Cornish countryside is painted white, contrasting with the vividly colourful pieces of her textile collages that adorn the walls. Rolls of fabric are stacked in one corner, while boxes sit on the floor and worktops are piled high with dyed material. The only tools on show are paint brushes in jars, three irons and a pair of spring-loaded scissors. 

The studio is in a converted watermill surrounded by two-and-a-half acres of garden. This plant-filled plot has been nurtured by Amanda over the 19 years she has lived there. Today it forms the overarching inspiration for her art. It is a glorious rambling landscape of pathways winding through flower beds, a pond and a traditional orchard. The Penberth river trickles through the garden, its moorland origin and route through golden granite giving the water a deep yellow-brown glow.  

Amanda has been working with fabrics for 40 years, first experimenting as a teenager at art school in Penzance. She attributes some of her affinity for textiles to the fact that her artist mother also used fabrics in her work. At the time Amanda was accepted to Goldsmiths, University of London, the fashion among artists was for harsh work, using austere barbed wire and calico. Amanda rejected this to develop her own style. “I have always loved seductively beautiful fabrics and so I looked for a way to use them,” she says. She is also a painter and believes there is a link between the two art forms. Both require her to think in layers.

Now she creates beautiful collages of grasses, flowers, trees and wild landscapes using a combination of fabrics. She dyes many of them herself to get the right shades. “The natural world is what I find most exciting about life,” she says, “Artists should be working with what excites them.”

Her work is strongly influenced by the flora growing around her. Plants and flowers are kept in pots so they can be brought into the studio to be worked from. “My work is about the growing plant and so much information is lost if it is cut,” she says. “I am looking at how it comes out of the ground, the way the leaves connect to the stem, all of the minutiae.” 

Selecting and dyeing fabrics

Each new collage starts with a spark of inspiration, influenced by something that captures her eye on a walk or while in her garden. She works out an initial composition in her mind. Then she creates a simple pencil drawing, often just 3in (7.5cm) square, to work out the weight and movement through the composition. “It is worth getting those qualities just right,” she says. “I then scale that up onto the background, the fabric of my piece.” This scaling up is achieved by using a grid and sketching the design onto backing material with a white pencil. 

Next she chooses the fabrics. New ones are sourced from a small textile shop in Penzance. “They supply velvets and silks and extraordinary fabrics,” she says. Boxes are also filled with pieces saved from previous projects and these are delved into as she picks out the different surfaces and fibres she wants. Her choice is influenced by the light reflecting qualities and textural elements she feels are required for each collage. Her pieces use a combination of satins, silks, velvets and man-made textiles.

Each new piece of work requires fresh dyeing of new fabrics. She uses two main techniques, depending on the type of fabric. Silks and other natural textiles are coloured using what she terms the boiling cauldron method. This involves dipping the fabric into hot water that has been mixed with dye. Special dyes, known as disperse dyes, are used for man-made fabrics. These are painted onto paper then transferred to the fabric with heat. 

Layers of depth

Working on an autumnal poppy and barley project, Amanda first creates the grass background. She applies dye with a paintbrush to a sheet of high-quality drawing paper. “By using brush strokes, I am suggesting the waving movement of the barley,” she explains. “By building the layers at this initial stage, I will have all of this sense of motion and texture built into the piece. That is what I am doing with all of my fabric, building character into it. It gives a sense of depth and complexity and brings life to the piece.”

Once the design is painted, the selected piece of fabric is placed under the inverted paper. Heat is slowly applied to the back of the paper using an iron on a high setting. This forces the image to bond with the fibres of the material below. 

There is an important distinction between the results obtained by dyeing as opposed to painting onto fabric. “What is essential to the personality of my art is a light-reflective quality,” says Amanda. “If I were to paint directly, it would sit on top of the fabric and mask these qualities. In this case the dyes have actually entered into the fibres and so all those lovely surface qualities are retained. The colour becomes integral to the fabric rather than superficial.” 

The selection and dyeing of the materials is time consuming. It can take as long as a week to achieve all the gradations of tone, colour and pattern needed on all the pieces of fabric she is going to use. It is a part of the process from which she takes great joy. “Because I am coming to it as a painter, it is the most exciting thing I could possibly do,” she says. “I love dyeing fabric, creating the tones and colours and suggestions of patterns. Sometimes I have to give myself a talking to and remind myself there is an end goal here. It is such an adventure seeing how each piece will react to the dyes, and envisaging how the fabrics will work together in the final composition.”

Once the dyed fabric is dry, it is ironed flat. Amanda then takes a roll of glue, which has a type of greaseproof backing paper on one side and adhesive on the other. This is bought in 328ft (100m) rolls, several at a time. It is placed glue-side down on the reverse of each individual piece of fabric being used in the collage and ironed on. Once the backing paper is peeled away, the fabric is ready to be used for the collage. A particular advantage of this technique is the way in which the glue holds the fabric together. Under any other technique, small cut pieces would fray and become almost impossible to use. The glue stiffens the fabric and holds the weave.

Building the collage

The poppies are now created petal by petal, building up the layers piece by piece, before transferring a whole flower to the main collage. There Amanda experiments with the different elements of the piece. “It is the association of plants that interests me, not just something standing on its own but the whole environment, the miniature landscape,” she explains. “When I have put that together, I then have the freedom of planting my flowers in the collage. I naturally think in layers. That is part of what gives a sense of depth. Building layer upon layer slightly fools the eye of the viewer.”

Using the iron on a warm setting, the pieces can be tacked in place so they do not drift in the breeze or move in the event of her cat, Artemis, jumping up. Everything can be peeled back and repositioned if necessary. The flex from the iron used to be a problem if it trailed across the work. This was solved by using an elasticated dog lead to keep it suspended above her.

Other than her hands, Amanda’s key piece of equipment is a pair of spring-loaded scissors. These open automatically after each cut, helping reduce the strain on her hands. She uses these regardless of the size or fineness of the piece she is cutting, never downsizing to a smaller pair. “It is just a matter of precision. If I really concentrate I can shape even the most minute fragments,” she says. She works with great dexterity, picking up and moving the pieces with the tips of the scissors without ever cutting them. 

Once she is satisfied everything is in the best place, a warm iron is run over the whole artwork to tack it down. She then damps a piece of cotton fabric, squeezes out the moisture and lays it over the collage. With the iron turned up to its hottest setting, she firmly glides it over the entire surface. This permanently fixes the pieces in place. 

The collage is now set, but she can still add pieces of fabric to tweak the composition if she wishes. The process of adding and sealing can be repeated as often as required. How much time is spent on each artwork varies widely, from two weeks to a month or more. It all depends on how many adjustments are needed and the fineness of the detail. 

The collage does not have clean edges, with leaves and foliage creeping over the sides. Amanda prefers to leaving her pieces unframed which allows for these organic edges. It also means there is not reflective glass surface between the viewer and the collage. Instead the finished work has a wooden backing. 

The act of displaying the collage is central to her art. “For me, the fascinating moment is when I first hang it up, put the lights on it and stand back,” she says. “The key factor is that it shifts and changes throughout the day in different lights and the different angles from which it is viewed. It is not static. I want it to work from 30 feet away or right up close, from either side or dead on. That journey of the eye is a very complex one but that is what is exciting about the work.”

Words: Eleanor Gasgarth Photography: Clive Doyle

The feature about Amanda's textile art originally appeared in the Sept / Oct 2015 issue of LandScape.
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MARION FOSTER STITCHES TRADITIONAL KILTS IN HER PERTHSHIRE WORKSHOP

CREATING TRADITIONAL TARTAN GARMENTS 

Pale winter light streams in through a glass gable-end of an oak-beamed workroom, overlooking Perthshire’s Strathearn Valley and the River Earn. Publications on tailoring, tartan and Scottish history fill a bookcase on the wall. In front of them, lengths of tartan in a variety of colours are spread out on large tables. Behind them finished kilts hang on a rail, waiting to be fitted. Tall spools of green, red, blue and black thread are ready to be used. On the tables lie pincushions and tailoring scissors.  

This light, airy space is home to Marion Foster, who makes traditional kilts by hand. She came to kilt making through a love of textiles. “As a teenager I would make all my own clothes, despite it being the jeans era,” she recalls. She made her first kilt when she was 16, for her uniform as a cub scout. “I had no money to buy one, so I thought I would make it. It must have worked as I wore it for quite a while.”

Marion continued making her own clothes, then four years ago, inspired by a course she attended, she started making kilts in her spare time. At the age of 50, she decided it was time for a change. “I still had the energy and felt it was time to follow my passion,” she says. In 2011 she started making her hand-stitched kilts full time under the name of Askival of Strathearn.

Taking the measurements

“Making a kilt takes a lot of time and effort. I stitch every kilt completely by hand and making one from start to finish takes me five full days,” she says. 

“When someone comes to me for a new kilt, we first decide on a tartan.” Marion has books of tartans she uses to find specific ones. Once a tartan has been chosen, she commissions the 100 per cent wool fabric from one of five remaining tartan weavers in Scotland. 

Each kilt is made of one single length of fabric with two overlapping aprons at the front and pleats at the back. Because of the many folds of the pleats, approximately 32ft (10m) of fabric is used for each garment.  

The kilt is shaped to the individual wearer. It should fit snugly into the small of the wearer’s back and then widen, before falling to the middle of the knee. It sits high on the waist, lying smoothly across the abdomen. If someone has a large build, the kilt should fall from the stomach, not lower down. “I think of the wearer’s shape all the time,” she says. 

Accurate measurements are crucial to the final fit and hang of the kilt. Marion measures the wearer’s waist, seat and length to the centre of the knee.   

Forming the pleats

A tartan may have many colours, some subtle, some more obvious. The way the pleats are created emphasises particular colours in a tartan. “It’s amazing how many colours there can be within the garment,” she says. 

A tartan can be folded so the big squares and original tartan design are clearly visible. This is called sett pleating. It can also be folded so it emphasises lines on the tartan, which are a different colour. This is called pleating to the stripe.  

Marion calculates how many pleats the kilt needs and their size. She bases this on the measurements she has taken, the individual tartan and how the fabric is going to be folded. Her kilts have between 27 and 34 pleats for an adult male. This is the same for a woman’s dancing kilt, although a woman’s fashion kilts varies widely. These kilts are more like skirts and often have bigger pleats. Standard kilts have pleats that are on average ¾in (2cm) wide on the outside. 

After the calculations have been made, Marion cuts the tartan to the right depth. She leaves cutting the length of the fabric until all the different parts of the kilt are marked out. The aprons, or front parts, are marked out first with white chalk. It does not take long to stitch these parts, and the chalk will rub off easily when it is done.  

The individual pleats are marked with special white tailor’s wax, which lasts longer. This is important as stitching the pleats takes time and must be done accurately. The marks are made on the front of the fabric, so they can be seen clearly when sewing. Marion folds and stitches every pleat individually as she goes, measuring the width and pinning it in place constantly.
“Every millimetre counts,” she says. “Twenty-seven times one millimetre makes a big difference.” 

Because it is hand sewn, she can make sure every bit of fabric is exactly where it should be. Misalignment is prevented, as she can control the bouncy fabric as she sews. It is a slower process, but gives an excellent final product. “I set the standard high,” she says. “It takes me up to a day to sew the pleats.” 

The pleats are stitched from the top to roughly a third of the length of the kilt. To keep them in place before the fabric is pressed, temporary basting is added lower down on each pleat. 

Lifting the folds

Marion now turns the kilt over. Working on the back, she spends three hours securing each pleat in place with barely visible, small stitches. This extra stitching ensures the pleats are secured higher up, and keeps them from stretching and sagging. 

Further support and shaping is provided by stitching linen canvas across the full aprons and the back pleating. It helps preventing the kilt from distorting when the straps used to fasten it are adjusted. 

Once the canvas is in place, a special piece of equipment is used to shape the kilt. Called an iron, it consists of a large table with a foot switch to turn on a vacuum. This sucks the fabric to the table, keeping it flat. A steam iron is then used to flatten the pleats and mould the kilt into shape. The table also heats up to help the shaping. 

Adding the buckles

Now the 32ft (10m) of fabric has been successfully concertinaed into the garment, it is time for the first fitting. Marion checks to ensure the kilt is fitting correctly and falling as it should. If she is not happy, she alters the stitching to improve the fit.  

One of the final steps is to add three metal buckles, the pieces of tartan that hold the belt buckles known as chapes and belt loops. Made of the same tartan as the kilt, the chapes match up with the pattern when attached. The bar of the buckle sits over the join between the third and fourth pleat on either side. The third buckle is placed over the second and third pleat on
the right-hand side. 

Marion takes great care in sewing the chapes, which need to match with precision. “It is hard on your fingers,” she says. “I use a very fine needle, but there is still a lot of fabric to go through. It is one of the most difficult things to do neatly.” She uses no thimble as her fingers have become used to the work over the years. She adds a waistband, again aligning it at the front and creating symmetry with the pattern of the tartan at the back.

The kilts are finalised with a black cotton lining. Marion embroiders Askival of Strathearn onto it. She can also add unique embroidery specified by the client, which usually mentions a name, place and year. “Once I’ve done all this, I press it one last time,” she says. At this point the temporary basting which was added to the pleats is removed. Only the final, barely visible minute stitches remain. 

Everything is now ready for the final fitting. “The apron should always lie neatly at the sides without rolling or kicking out. There should be no gap between the apron and the pleats, all of which should sit straight at the bottom.”

A kilt has to be comfortable for many occasions. “You should be able to climb a mountain in it if you want,” says Marion. Her final product has approximately 40 hours of work and a great deal of love and care in it. “It’s a truly beautiful garment that can be passed down through generations.”  

Words: Marieke McBean Photography: Mark Mainz

This feature about Marion Foster's kilts appeared in the Jan / Feb 2016 issue of LandScape. 
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GLASSBLOWER CAPTURES THE WILDNESS OF THE SEA IN BEAUTIFUL BOWLS

ARTIST CREATES GLASSWARE REFLECTING THE CHARACTER OF THE CORNISH COAST

Vivid blue bowls crowd the shelves of Malcolm Sutcliffe’s whitewashed studio in Penryn, Cornwall. In the far corner, a large furnace emits a fiery glow each time the door is opened.  

Malcolm set up his studio in a former bakery 14 years ago. “I had been working in glass for more than 26 years when my artist wife Jean and I decided to relocate from Chesterfield where we had a studio to Penryn. In our youth, we both had summer holiday jobs in St Ives, getting engaged while we were there. We always hoped to live by the sea, and looked in Devon and Cornwall until we found this place.   

“I always wanted to make things, and I became hooked on glass making in college. I got good technical training and discipline working in a small glass company, in terms of honing my skills, but it was not artistically satisfying,” he says. He wanted to be in full control of the whole process, from creating to selling. “I wanted to create a glass blowing studio with a gallery to display and sell the work in. It took a while to get established here but we have successfully done it now for 14 years which we are both delighted with.” 

When they moved in, the building was in a terrible state. “It hadn’t been used as a bakery for 26 years, the windows were smashed and there was no water,” he says. “It took six months to get the furnace and studio up and running but we have never looked back.” 

Since then, the sea and coastline have become an increasing inspiration for his art. The design of his seascape bowls and vases conveys a sense of movement and immersion. This is created through the vivid colours and textures he adds to the glass, and also by the shape of each vessel. His elegant Wavy Sea design reflects the white-tipped waves against the blue of the sea and the sky. The convex surface of the bowls brings the scene and patterns to life. It is as if they leap from the glass.  

His designs range in size from dainty perfume bottles 4in (10cm) high to magnificent bowls measuring 19½in (50cm) in diameter. 

Wild inspiration

Malcolm’s working day starts at 7am when he removes the previous day’s pieces from the ovens, and runs until 5pm when he finally lays down his blowing iron. The muffled ongoing rumble of the furnace is accompanied by the odd tinkling and pinging of small pieces of surplus glass as they cool and detach from the blowing irons. He is constantly on the move, deftly rotating, swinging and raising the blowing iron to his mouth to breathe into the vivid globule of molten glass at its end. 

The furnace is used to heat the raw material, known as batch, to create the molten glass. This is 65 per cent silica sand, in pellet form. Inside the furnace is a brick box with a ceramic crucible, a container that can withstand extremely high temperatures. 

Initially, it takes two days to get the temperature of the furnace up to the 1240°C required to create molten glass. It must be fired up slowly so as not to crack the crucible. The batch is shovelled into the furnace over the space of five hours. Doing this gradually helps achieve a better, more even melt. 

After seven hours, the molten glass is as fluid as water. Malcolm then turns the furnace down, leaving it to reach its working temperature of 1055°C overnight. By the morning, the glass has the consistency of toffee and is ideal for working. 

“The crucible holds 50kg of molten glass, which will last a week before I need to refill it,” he says. 

Heating and cooling

In addition to the main furnace, there are two smaller ones, known as glory holes. The glass is returned to one of these frequently during the blowing process to soften and shape the vessel. Malcolm needs two to accommodate the different sized pieces he produces. He is able to produce only one or two of the largest bowls in a day. In the same time, he can make up to six smaller bowls. 

The final element is the annealing oven. Annealing is a process whereby glass is heated then allowed to cool slowly. Doing this removes internal stresses and toughens the glass. “Everything I make has to be annealed,” says Malcolm. “As soon as I’ve finished blowing a piece, it goes in there at 500°C and stays at that temperature. At the end of the day, I set a programme timer that cools the oven slowly overnight, then the pieces come out in the morning. If they were left at room temperature to cool they would break.”

Creating the picture

To create one of his bowls, he begins with a blowing iron. This is a hollow tube of stainless steel with a nylon mouthpiece at one end. Opening the main furnace, he dips the bare end into the crucible of molten glass. It is rotated continuously so that the glass is collected evenly. 

He now moves to his chair, as he needs to trundle the iron rod along the extended arm, causing the glass to rotate, gently shaping it. The small globule is placed inside a rounded hole in the centre ofa block he carved from cherry wood. “In many ways the surfaces and tools used are just as important as the glass,” he says. “For example, I use cherry wood because it doesn’t burn particularly quickly. It’s also close grained so it doesn’t mark the glass too much.” 

The blocks are kept in water to remain damp. The water turns to steam when touched by the glass, lubricating the block so no marks or ash are left on the piece.  

He now begins to add colour. A first layer of cerulean blue for the sky is gathered by dipping the piece into a bowl of powdered glass, which sticks to the hot surface. The glass is returned to the reheating furnace for a few seconds to soften so the powdered glass will adhere to it. A layer of white powder is then added to the blue. This will form the gentle cloud background of the design. 

“To create a swirling sky effect, I throw water onto a table called a marver and spread it with my hand,” he says. “I twist the rod as the glass is run along the wet surface.”

The marver is made of thermal insulation to cope with the high temperatures. Malcolm saved it from a derelict science laboratory when he was a student. “As well as not catching fire, the material doesn’t take the heat from the glass like steel does,” he says.  

Adding the white-tipped waves

After twisting it to his satisfaction, Malcolm returns the piece to the reheating furnace before a further layer of blue is added. More glass is gathered from the main furnace until the vessel resembles a light bulb in size, glowing red and orange. At this stage the colours underneath cannot be seen. The wave motif starts to be added with aqua-coloured powdered glass, Malcolm darting to and from the reheating furnace after each application. “I use a spoon to apply white granules because it allows a precise application of colour. These will become the wild crests of the waves when the bowl is blown. I’m trying to get a painterly quality, with the same feeling of depth,” he says.

The glass is blocked again using a slightly larger cherry wood mould, and is then ready to be blown. A burst of compressed air that comes from a gun dangling from the ceiling blasts the bottom to chill it. This is done to ensure the glass remains thicker at the base. Malcolm puts the rod to his mouth and blows steadily, expanding the bubble inside. The glass is returned to the glory hole after each blow. Now a tool known as a jack, which resembles a large pair of tweezers, is used to gradually score the rim closest to the blowing rod in preparation for its detachment. One of the jacks has cardboard tubes on its end, wet like the blocks so the glass is, as Malcolm explains, “riding on a cushion of steam”. A wad of damp newspaper is also used to manually shape the bowl.

If he wishes to create a more natural pointed shape, he swings the rod gently in a pendulum motion. “The idea is to make the glass do all of the work. All I am doing is gently coaxing it with the tools to get it to do what I want. Mainly I rely on heat and gravity and turning.”

Finishing up

Once the bowl is at the desired size, the glass is transferred to a punty. This is an iron rod whose name is believed to be derived from the French word pont meaning bridge. It is tipped with a wad of hot glass and attached to the bottom of the vessel to hold it while the top is finalised. Only a small aperture exists at the top where the blowing iron was attached. If this needs to be widened to create the rim of the bowl, Malcolm holds the piece close to the reheating furnace. Then he uses his jacks to slowly widen and shape the mouth. “It is a gradual process to open it out,” he says. “As soon as it is touched with cold wet tools it stops being malleable and needs to be reheated.” It can take at least 15 trips over 15 minutes to and from the kiln to shape the rim. It is during this stage that the final colours and patterns begin to emerge.  

When the rim is smooth and at the right size, Malcolm chips off the punty rod and puts the bowl straight into the annealing oven to cool. When it comes out the following morning, it will have its punty mark – the ring-shaped scar on the base – ground off using a drill. Sometimes a piece will be sandblasted to enhance its colours and remove the reflections, depending on whether he feels the design will benefit from the glass having a matt or satin finish.

Once Malcolm has started making a piece, he has to see it through without pause. “There’s no stopping for a cup of tea. I can’t hang it up and have a think because it would crack and fall off of the blowing iron,” he says. “There’s a fluidity to the process and a spontaneity that would be lost if it was deliberated over in stages and I like that. Each piece is unique. Sometimes the colour has a mind of its own and will do what it wants. That is entirely natural and reflects the free blown nature of my work.”

Words: Eleanor Gaskarth Photography: Clive Doyle

The feature about Malcolm Sutcliffe's glassblowing studio originally appeared in the July / August 2015 issue of LandScape. For back issues click here or to subscribe to LandScape click here  www.malcolm-sutcliffe.co.uk

Amanda Perkins creates rainbows of colour with her crocheted motifs

Beautiful, multi-coloured blankets made from motifs in a range of shapes festoon a North Devon studio

Soft rainbow-coloured blankets, created from a jigsaw of shapes and shades, spill out of bags in the North Devon workroom of crochet-pattern designer Amanda Perkins. Balls of yarn are arranged in clusters around the floor, waiting to be turned into future creations. A few finished motifs sit on a table. Next to them are jars holding an array of hooks.

These beautifully crafted blankets are created from circles, triangles, stars and squares, each motif itself made of myriad colours. "I am not just making a blanket, I am making a piece of art," says Amanda. Her blankets are not for sale. Instead they are used to illustrate what can be achieved with the 100 designs she has created in the past 10 years.

It takes approximately two months to create a blanket. It can take even longer to create the initial design. Before Amanda picks up a crochet hook and yard, her designs and colour ways are worked out on graph paper. "the colours and shapes excite me," she says. "I'm always thinking about designs. As I make one blanket, i am thinking about the next one. I love the tactile element, the fact that it keeps people warm and you are putting love into something."

Photography: Clive Doyle

The complete feature about Amanda Perkins appeared in the Mar / April 2016 issue of LandScape. 
For back issues click here.

Artist Louise O'Hara captures the countryside in her beautiful fabric collages

Vintage oddments of textiles help evoke childhood memories

The purples and greens of a moorland landscape start to come alive in a patchwork of lace, silk and paper shapes. Artist Louise O'Hara outlines the position of a ramshackle gate in pencil, before threading a needle and starting to sew. 

Colour and texture abound in her small studio in the heart of a Cheshire village. Vintage fabrics spill out of boxes, inks and reels of thread cluster on wooden workbenches among pots of paint, glue and brushes. Lengths of cloth hang off chairs, bales of paper are stacked under tables. 

This is where Louise portrays the light and textures of the world around her. She crafts paintings and collages that capture the spirit of the countryside and seascape. Many are based on her own memories of childhood holidays. Her designs are tactile but delicate. 

Photography: Jeremy Walker

The complete feature about Louise O'Hara's work appeared in the May / June 2016 issue of LandScape. 
For back issues click here.

Devon linen weaver Susie Gillespie

Ancient techniques create subtle patterns

Deep in the Devon countryside, weaver Susie Gillespie is busy creating fabrics and yarn that hark back to a time long predating her 15th century barn. The linen cushions she weaves are inspired by ancient fabrics woven by early textile makers. Subtle geometric patterns are created in one or two colours, their muted tones reminiscent of a time gone by. Larger, wall-hung pieces are also inspired by prehistoric textiles and the ancient process of weaving.

Much of the visual interest of her work derives from the slight imperfections in the hand-spun yarns she uses. The differing textures introduced during the weaving add to the unaffected simplicity and appeal.

It is now 20 years since Susie started working as a weaver. She relishes the ability to work doing something that gives her so much pleasure. “I often feel a bit guilty as I have a lovely time,” she laughs. “I find weaving both emotionally and aesthetically satisfying.” She takes pleasure in the actual making process, the act of weaving, the slowness of its growth and the feel of the yarn.

Her woven fabrics are influenced by her enduring love of early textiles. Like her own work, these were mainly woven in linen with small areas of pattern. She takes great pleasure in using the same ancient techniques and materials as those used by the ancient weavers. At the same time, inspiration also comes from objects surrounding her home. These include field and building outlines, shapes of barns, textures of stone and cob walls.

Photography: Jeremy Walker

This feature appeared in the Spring 2016 issue of LandScape. 
For back issues click here.

A CARPENTER TRANSFORMS RECLAIMED WOOD INTO PRACTICAL FURNITURE

A HERTFORDSHIRE CRAFTSWOMAN WITH A PASSION FOR RECYCLING BRINGS NEW LIFE TO DISCARDED PLANKS AND PALLETS

A pile of timber is stacked outside a wooden workshop beneath an evergreen tree. Planks of wood of varying age, condition and length, are all heaped together. A few feet away lie piles of pallets, drying in the Hertfordshire sunshine. It is all castoff wood that has outgrown its original purpose.

In the careful hands of Vicki Brand, it will re-emerge sanded, polished and converted into useful furniture. At her workshop near Hatfield, she specialises in bringing new life to this worn out, unloved wood. Nothing goes to waste. “I use anything I can lay my hands on,” she says. “I’ve developed a good relationship with farmers, workshops and scaffolders who have wood for me.”

New life for wood

Finding new uses for old wood is a passion for Vicki. “Pallets and scrap wood are cut up and burned at building sites. It seems such a horrible waste to discard it,” she says. “It might have come to the end of its original purpose, but it can continue to be useful.”

Her enthusiasm for breathing vitality into unwanted wood began when she moved to a small cottage in Hertford four years ago. There was only a minimal amount of storage and she failed to find furniture that matched the dimensions of the space available. She had never made anything before but believed her practical nature would enable her to produce her own furniture. “I used an old crate to make a trunk that fitted my cottage,” she says. “It was unique and looked good. Next I wanted a corner cupboard for my bathroom. I cut up an old cupboard my parents were about to throw away, and remade it. I now have several of my own pieces at home including shelving units, storage crates, a side table, coffee and kitchen tables.”

The decision to turn her hobby into a business came just over two years ago, after making a coffee table for her mother. “Some friends saw it and wanted one. As people saw what I was making, orders for bespoke furniture started arriving. That’s when I decided to create my own business.”

She has no formal furniture-making training, but has benefitted from her father’s advice. “Dad is good at carpentry. He inspired me, and has been an excellent teacher,” she says. “Now I prefer to learn on the job and figure out solutions to new problems. I started off making trunks, then I moved on to kitchen tables and picture frames. Last year I made a picnic table.”

Building a workshop

For the first 18 months, she was based in her parents’ garage. Then in January this year, she built her own workshop on the site of her family’s horticultural business. “It took me three weeks to build, including re-concreting the floor. Old fence posts were used for the corners. I made the window frames with glass from an old greenhouse.”

The large doors on the wooden structure were built from an eclectic range of planks. When they are tied back, the sun’s rays penetrate the building. They allow her to wheel her machinery outside to use.

Light shining through windows in the roof illuminates the work surfaces within the L-shaped workshop. Curled wood shavings line the floor, while layers of wood dust coat every surface. Dried-out wood awaiting reinvention is piled up against one wall. Nearby, a dustpan and brush are propped up next to wall-mounted storage boxes housing nails and screws. Next to them are rows of ordered and readily-accessible hand tools. “I have extremely sharp chisels for fine work and an extremely good router for picture frames. This creates an indent for the glass to sit in,” she says. Many of her tools are recycled, including her router which came from a builder, and a mitre saw from the family nursery. Her most expensive tool is a bench saw that cost £500. This motorised circular saw is mounted beneath a worktable, with the blade protruding through an opening.

Cleaning the wood

When the wood first arrives, it needs a considerable amount of work before it is usable. Much of it has come from building sites. Old screws must be ground off, tar and spray paint purged by a sanding process. The nails and screws are recycled, and used to hold the furniture together. The pallets are pulled apart with a long-handled implement her father made. “I use leverage with the tool and my body weight to break them up. By the time I have finished, they are not recognisable as pallets,” she says. Pallets that come from building sites have hardened patches of cement on them, which is removed by sanding. Vicki repeatedly sands and polishes the wood, until it is unrecognisable from its origins. The scaffold boards are used for the large pieces of furniture such as tables. The pallets become signs and legs.  

Old scaffold wood, usually pine but occasionally oak, is durable. Ageing and being exposed to the elements causes the planks to turn grey. Uneven recycled wood requires sanding by machine to level it out and create a flat surface. Despite splits and knots, by investing sufficient effort, she restores them to a standard indistinguishable from new wood.

Working by instinct

One of her pieces is a coffee table with crossed legs, built with scaffold planks. “I select flat sections for the table top then leave them outside for two weeks so the sun dries them out. This is essential as wet wood shrinks when put together,” she says. 

“Tar and cement are removed with a grinder, followed by three stages of sanding. To start with, I use 80 grit sanding paper. This has the roughest finish so removes more. It is followed by the finer grades, 120 then 240. After each stage, the wood becomes smoother and more suitable.”

Vicki often relies on her intuition when creating her pieces. For the coffee table, she works by instinct to create the angles for the legs. “I know the angle I need because I’ve been taught to do this by eye.”

However,  before she cuts the plank which is to be used for the top of the table she takes careful measurements. She does this twice to ensure they are accurate. 

“Once the plank is cut, I screw the top into the legs. Once finished, the table needs a final re-sand because of the holes drilled for the screws. I use a fine 250 grit for this. Then I apply two layers of beeswax by hand. It takes two days to complete a table like this.”

Vicki’s growing knowledge and experience help her solve more complex problems. “Before I would have wondered how a crate was put together,” she says. “Now I can look at a big piece of furniture and know what I need to do. I won’t make something that I wouldn’t want in my own home. If I make a mistake, I learn from it.

“Usually I just go ahead and make the furniture. Sometimes, however, more precision is needed. Intricate pieces have to have the angles and dimensions right so I might sketch them out first.”

Creating individuality

Experimentation is crucial in generating the right image for her furniture. Vicki makes paler pieces for customers who favour a driftwood appearance. Her darker, stained, waxed wood has a rustic look. Unable to obtain large, black bolts for dark furniture, and to match the ironmongery, she found a way of ageing new ones by dipping them in gun blue. This liquid is used to protect steel against rust, and results in a blackening appearance. “The darkening effect is instant,” she says.

“I design everything and make it from scratch to order. Using new wood would be quicker, but I can renew something old, giving people furniture that is unique,” she says. “The wood is so interesting and no two pieces are the same. The grain and worn areas enhance each item.

“The wood is harder to make things with because it has been thoroughly exposed to the elements. But it is very fulfilling to be able to turn something that is knotty and no longer used into functional, bespoke furniture, giving it a new lease of life.” 

Words: Sandra Smith Photography: Clive Doyle

The feature about Vicki Brand's woodwork originally appeared in the Nov / Dec 2015 issue of LandScape.
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