Changing Climates
I met a woman on my travels to New South Wales who had moved from Regional Victoria to Woolgoola, north of Coffs Harbour. She was volunteering in a local regional gallery filled with arts and crafts produced by the artists and makers from the regions. It mimicked the many regional galleries dotted along the regions and coastline.
We chatted about the gallery, the artworks and the place. She was a maker; manipulating textiles and colour felt into creations that are reminiscent of conventional clothes, but a little more quirky. Outside the skies are blue and the temperature is a very acceptable 23 degrees on a wintery day. It seems perfect. However, over a cup of tea I discovered the curse of climate on an artist.
She had previously lived in Southern Victoria, on a large rural property surrounded by mountains. The summers were bright, light and fragrant. The winters were harsh, dark and foreboding. They locked her inside, within the four walls and after a suitable period of bumping walls, the maker would make. She would spend hours and evenings spinning, sewing, clipping and cutting. Dyeing and experimenting while outside the dark, cold blanket was tucked into the edges.
The darkness and cold encouraged her to make; it created space and time within the warm, secluded bubble. She moved north with the promise of warmer climates, a healthier life, however, the side effect was a lack of containment, which in turn led to less making. Sunlight and warmth beckoned the tennis player, the swimmer, the bowler and the bronze grey nomads who gather for afternoon drinks. She missed her confinement and I cherish mine. I realise now the reason why we have so many creatives.
What do we do on those long dark evenings that begin too soon. We make. Sort of reassuring really.
We chatted about the gallery, the artworks and the place. She was a maker; manipulating textiles and colour felt into creations that are reminiscent of conventional clothes, but a little more quirky. Outside the skies are blue and the temperature is a very acceptable 23 degrees on a wintery day. It seems perfect. However, over a cup of tea I discovered the curse of climate on an artist.
She had previously lived in Southern Victoria, on a large rural property surrounded by mountains. The summers were bright, light and fragrant. The winters were harsh, dark and foreboding. They locked her inside, within the four walls and after a suitable period of bumping walls, the maker would make. She would spend hours and evenings spinning, sewing, clipping and cutting. Dyeing and experimenting while outside the dark, cold blanket was tucked into the edges.
The darkness and cold encouraged her to make; it created space and time within the warm, secluded bubble. She moved north with the promise of warmer climates, a healthier life, however, the side effect was a lack of containment, which in turn led to less making. Sunlight and warmth beckoned the tennis player, the swimmer, the bowler and the bronze grey nomads who gather for afternoon drinks. She missed her confinement and I cherish mine. I realise now the reason why we have so many creatives.
What do we do on those long dark evenings that begin too soon. We make. Sort of reassuring really.
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