Sunday, 28 April 2013


I’ve been reading Maggie Nelson's genre-defying little book, Bluets, which I first learned of from a series of thoughtful and beautiful musings by Sigrun in Norway and which Victoria of Tales from the Reading Room recently reviewed in characteristically perceptive and illuminating fashion.

While reading I looked for blue things to photograph, found a plethora of blue things both natural and artificial, all miraculously vivid in the late-arriving strong spring sunshine. The long, cold, bleak winter just ended, and almost unprecedented in this country, was rather like having emigrated, without knowing it, to a new, alarming place. The spring that finally followed – late, fierce and fluctuating – had been so much longed for, but is proving hard, for me at least, to adjust to and embrace. Somehow this sudden light and warmth alarms me too. The contrast is too great. Pushed and pulled as I feel to open to it, I find myself shrinking away. The winter left me shrivelled and defensive, ill-equipped to move towards the sunshine. This is all too obvious and painful a metaphor for life in the longer term.

 Bluets is a small book that tackles big topics, overwhelming feelings: lost love, a friend’s catastrophic injury. To approach passionate suffering through colour seems not inappropriate. The perception of colour - so ordinary and everyday, yet intensely primal and intensely allusive; so essential, yet essentially ephemeral and questionable - opens many doors. I think of John Berger and John Christie’s wonderful I Send You This Cadmium Red. Long out of print, it’s now deservedly an expensive collector’s item, but I’ve been lucky enough to twice see the whole book, along with their original letters and artwork, in London exhibitions: one of the most inspiring, creative and truly collaborative works I’ve ever encountered.

Bluets, of course, is the opposite of collaborative, one woman’s slowly hatched, intensely personal and individual work, but it too opens many doors, gathering so many sources, experiences and emotions into a single brief and quirky little book of short, numbered paragraphs. Why are they numbered? This is not sequential or progressive or hierarchical and “there are no instruments for measuring blue”. It’s not poetry. Not even, I would argue, prose poetry. Also not a story or an essay or any kind of narrative. What holds it together is the strands of blue; along with events, feelings, readings, musings from the writer’s life, they stop and start, weave in and out like short and longer threads plaited into a braid. What this is, and how it does it, I don’t know, but it moves me emotionally and it moves forward, holds the attention, builds and resolves tension.

When linear narrative breaks down, there may still be other approaches, through beauty, creativity, emotional and intellectual leaps and connections. This is a work that resonates, that I expect to reread.

Saturday, 13 April 2013


The sun comes out a little and goes in a lot. Winter remains unrelenting. A little elven magic wouldn't go amiss.

Tuesday, 9 April 2013


A witch's cat, definitely. I thought she'd hear me think the word camera and be gone long before I got it out. But no, she just narrowed her eyes even more and continued to sit there, most happy to be photographed and taken as a omen.

Saturday, 6 April 2013

Night stirring

is that a fox stirring
the rubble in the big skip
or just the night wind?

Thursday, 4 April 2013

Displaced Spring

There was a window, a rare sunny day, between cold and threatened snow, and I went to the woods. Not much is stirring there. The green is mostly evergreen: holly, yew, and the ivy rampant on ground and tree-trunks; the only flowers a single displaced daffodil, a displaced scarlet glove. Still, the atmosphere is no longer quite one of Winter. Still, here below the wind in the high, bare tree-tops, we wait.

The other theme was mud: a wide, deep, sticky lake of it right inside the main access gate, avoidable only by crawling awkwardly through spiky undergrowth. Beyond this obstacle, the path slopes upwards, slimy at first and not easy to negotiate, then growing dryer and a surer footing soon found. The network of woodland tracks is mostly fine now, in fact, but more of this extravagant and daunting mud lies in wait at seemingly random dips and junctions. Something - a path, a season - isn't open yet. 

a few more photos here
and Dulwich Woods in Springtime 2010 here

Wednesday, 3 April 2013

College gate

Sunshine, yes!