Becoming Easter 2011

Wednesday 09 March - Sunday 24 April 2011

Behold I am doing a New Thing

I had no idea what this would be. The stretched canvas came from Oxford. My MSN messaging name is ‘Red shoes are lovely’ and I have a thing about red shoes. One day I noticed the progression from red boots to red shoes and realised there was a liberating element to the change. Another day, I sketched out a woman coming out of a person shaped cupboard, the woman’s body being more or less clearly seen, the cupboard shaped as voluminous clothes, hiding the human shape. It became an emergence from what was (for so long) to what was beginning to be.

So here it is. The boxes are all sorts of symbols and reality. The painted box in the middle always held vitamins, the boxes on either side, jewellery. All ways of managing. They are open here, as the things they stand for are now.

The title comes from another favourite Bible passage, Isaiah 43.19: “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.”

Communion Eucharist Last Supper

Oil on strips of canvas, mounted on reclaimed window frame

This work started from an idea of strips of canvas.  The frame came from East Hanney.  On the strips, I painted strips.  Then rising to my conscious mind came the brokenness of the church, which renders me so angry and hurt.  What should be a fellowship meal like any large family, with some members who get on and some who do not, has become that which divides more powerfully than any external agent.  This work is a metaphor for that division with yet the golden reminder that though we divide our selves, Holy Spirit entwines and connects us even so.  The title indicates our inability even to call the single dividing liturgy by a single name.

Darkness is as Light to you

This painting touches the deeply personal. It is a triptych, the panels created for a commission which never quite happened, but about which I am delighted to have the panels. I had no idea what would be here.

I painted the centre first, catching my shadow against the panel as I stood in my studio which is a conservatory. The left hand panel came next, with the little girl sheltering herself not from the night, but from the darkness heaped upon her. She found her occupations and her source of light.

The right hand panel was the last, evoking the faith message of harvest from grains. Gold glows all around.

The title is from Psalm 139, always my companion: “If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me, even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.”

My poem, Breathing Light, gives an indication of the movement from the left to the right of this painting: 

Breathing Light

Of course it’s hard work.
Of course.
It’s terrifying.

It’s immense,
Doing the monumental task of lifting;
Of lifting the grave stones;
Of heaving the box covers;
Of prising open the trunk lids;
Of sweeping heavy damask wrapping out of the way;
Of wrenching off swaddling clothes in unwilling lengths at a time;
Of course it’s hard work –
lifting the heavy settled weights of my history.

The weighted covers had their purpose.
They protected any thought of re-living.
They protected from moments (and swathes) of history that no one would want to remember.

And they were beautiful!

The covers were so wonderful.
So effectively sheltered and archived all that held pain.
Stunning colourful, classical - stones, covers, lids, wrapping … swaddling.
You might have been one who commented!
You might have been one to compliment,
To positively critique,
To say how magnificent they were, how well they worked and how truly beautiful all crafted coverings were.

Profoundly and creatively, the murky dark effluent locked into dark, unlit spaces.

Of course it’s hard work.
Moving everything which held a life of its own,
Well beyond the reason for its creation (and keeping in place).

But on a day when I could not speak, and the lids began to move themselves, I had no choice.

Take a breath. Take enormous lungful, steel muscles and heave.
From darkness to light.
In this light I breathe.
The light of all life flutters and shudders in my lungs.
The stones cry out.
The covers rattle.
The lids lift themselves.
The wrapping, swaddling slithers its own direction.


Lift, move, heave, shift, reveal.

Breathing light,
The monumental task gains wings.
Light as a feather,
Kingfisher brilliant.

Suddenly, in a flash of shocking brightness, all hidden becomes revealed.

And there is light!
And life.
And liberation.

In the Light.
Breathing of the light.

From Which You Were Hewn

Oil on canvas, mounted on slate

This canvas began life in the early 1980s when I was painting in Milton Keynes.  It moved, unpainted, to North Oxford and then to Cowley.  Something of its journey spoke to me of the journey to life itself.  In this calm, which reminds me of my loved Lake District, I see Creator God.  The title comes from Isaiah 51, a plea for the created to remember their creator.  From that creator rises life, hinting to what may be seen in the shape of the rocks in this work.  Mounting on slate, found by Stef, finished the journey of this canvas while emphasising the rock supporting all creations and journeys.

Holy Saturday

This was the beginning of so much. The canvas started as fabric stretched across a frame with a soldier facing horrors – a Remembrance Sunday image, still seen if you look at the back. Not needed for worship any longer, it became a mount for something else. Compelled by a dear friend in 1991, I painted what I felt angry about. The hand, out-stretched and touching a rainbow of fabric could not be painted closed in to the body, no matter how much I tried. The sheer process of trying to close it in while it tried to reach the light was hard work indeed. So I gave up and it does what it wanted – touches the rainbow.

The name indicates the time between the death and resurrection of Jesus. Death is known and life is not quite there yet, but there is a hint somewhere. This is my version of that in-between time.

Before I painted the painting, I wrote about this time:

This is my waiting time.

You know the time, the day;
that fateful Saturday
between ghoulish, ghastly, deadly Friday
exuberant, exhilarating, life-full Sunday.

The waiting day.

(the day when most thought death ruled
and few waited for promise truth)

The waiting day.
The in-between day.

This is my time.
Much of me has died
(cut out,
laid to rest).

Doctors say the waiting time goes on
(but healing is there).
Creator/Flesh/Spirit says the waiting time goes on
(but the promise will come).

As him who died (and lived)
was still (somehow) life;
I am dead/alive
in my waiting time.



That you may have life

Rainbows are huge for me. I love them because I have to find the dark to see them. Placing my back to the light, pursuing the search in the dark clouds, there they are – all the colours in the universe arching in one (or two) shining bows, reminding the dark that it is only vapour.

I tried so often to paint rainbows, finding twee results. This just catches a moment. It is hard to see on this photo, but the painting is mounted on glass, of which you can just see the faint outside edge. The glass mount is just that, glass. See through to whatever, reflecting whatever. The rainbow is the light, the glass almost water.

The title is from the gospel of John, my favourite theologian, who has Jesus say, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly”.

I wrote about rainbows:

You have to know where the light is

To see the promise

In the dark.

You can catch glimpses,

Without knowing.

If you stare at the dark on those caught times,

You’ll see the coloured promise.




Know the light behind you.

Study its source.


each time you see the dark,

Drenched in dour and damp gloom,


With the light behind you.


To meet the dark.

“I promise.”

“No more destruction.”



The stone Was Rolled Away

I woke one morning with this picture on my brain. I could see the vaulted ceiling of a huge cathedral and I could see a small person – minimised and apparently ignored by the immensity of the institution of the church. But as I painted, I couldn’t manage the person in the bottom right hand corner and realised that s/he shouldn’t be there.

Suddenly fabric burst forth with colour and movement and shape. What appears as a fuzzy mass at the bottom right of the painting is white gauze and ribbons; the bursting forth. As I watched this grow, it became a statement of my distance from, yet attachment to, the institutional church. The church and its core creeds have told me of love when I wished particular people might have. I have been ordained and upheld by the church, even with my own deep critique of it. I both belong to it and fly out of it.

Wisdom Dove Speaks

This is a combination of Jim Hansford’s shed window frame, Steph’s raw oak outside frame, fine woven cotton and rough canvas, variously tied and streched.

It was painted in 1992 when I was Artist in Residence for the United Reformed Church Forum conference. Themed ‘Roots and Branches’ the conference was planned to look at the roots of the URC; I couldn’t help but go back to the roots of our faith altogether. To me, the right side is rather like the knowledge of God as shared before Jesus Christ and the left, that knowledge as made human in the world. The Spirit (Wisdom Dove) is everywhere.

It hangs in this exhibition as a statement of that which I have always felt held me and a statement of what I always believed.