It’s hard to believe it’s been 10 years since the cataclysmic earthquake and tsunami struck Japan on March 11th 2011 claiming the lives of 18,500 people.
At the time, all I could do was write a poem as I, like billions around the globe, bore witness to the calamitous event unfolding before us.
I felt impotent. I tried to sell prints of my poem for $1 online to raise funds, to no avail.
I wished I was something useful like a doctor or a nurse, or a rescue worker that could do something practical to help.
Then I thought of all the creative people I had encountered during my long career as an art director in the advertising industry and I asked them for help. The response was phenomenal. I got donations of works of art from all over the world to be put into an auction to raise money for the Red Cross who were working on the ground over there.
Less than a month later, we held the Japan Art Auction at Jonathan Oakes photography studio in Manchester, hosted by The Smiths drummer Mike Joyce. It was an incredible success and, thanks to a great many people, we raised quite a few grand.
A lot has changed in 10 years. As you can see by the photos in The Guardian link above.
Things have changed for me too. I am now a Nursing Assistant at Stepping Hill Hospital in Stockport.
And, whilst my poem did not raise a single dollar, it did inspire Austrian composer Albors Pascal Askari to write this hauntingly beautiful piece of music. All the proceeds from which also went to the Japan relief effort.
And, unbeknownst to me, my poem was on the English curriculum at several schools in London for a couple of years.
These shots were taken up at Errwood Reservoir in the Goyt Valley.
It was dusk and a mist had descended over the hills. It was eerily calm, quiet and beautiful.
Followers of my Instagram account would be forgiven for thinking that I live in some sort of moorland idyll judging by the photos I post. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. I live in a mediocre suburb of Stockport in north west England. However, I am extremely fortunate to have the aforementioned idyll on my doorstep within a half-hour drive. And even luckier to have a car to get me there.
Many of us yearn for foreign climes, but I have discovered so many beautiful places close to where I live.
When I say ‘I discovered’, I think someone else might’ve been there before me. Judging by the roads. And the reservoir. And signposts. And farm buildings.
Apologies to Game of Thrones fans as this post’s title is literal rather than a metaphorical reference to House Stark.
I just wanted to share a few photos I took in Etherow Park near where I live in the north west of England during a bit of a snow flurry.
So, I took the opportunity to shamelessly piggy-back off of one of the most successful TV shows in history. (Not that I’ve ever watched the show, mind.) There can’t be many of us left.
Etherow Park is in Compstall, which is near Marple Bridge, which is near Stockport, which is near Manchester, which is nowhere near North Westeros.
Nope, there’s no reason why I wrote that in Japanese. Except that I ended 2019 in French, so I guess it’s tradition now.
I’m just going to fizzle out of 2020 with some more work that I’ve done since the Reflections on Lockdown series back in September.
If you follow me on Instagram you will have seen most of it already. If you don’t, you won’t.
Collage
I’ve been experimenting with collage recently. Not a medium I have much experience in. For some reason, the numbers 2121 have been popping into my consciousness quite frequently.
Those of you who believe it’s some sort of divine message might be able to enlighten me. Those of you who just think I have some form of apophenia may want to call me an ambulance.
Anyway, I decided to express these occurrences via the medium of collage. There are four in total, but the last one isn’t finished.
Abstract
Next up is a series of abstract pieces which I have titled: From order comes chaos / from chaos comes order.
I won’t show them all, because I’ve done loads. The premise is – the universe can seem a bit of a chaotic place, what with stars exploding and imploding, nebulae forming solar systems, black holes Hoovering up everything in their vicinity, etc. And that’s before we get into meteors crashing into planets causing all sorts of tidying up to be done afterwards.
Yet, out of all of this seeming ‘chaos’ there is so much order, structure and geometry to the universe. Not to mention the structures that we humans impose on the world around us, whether for good, or ill. Ultimately, everything returns to the ‘disorder’ to be recycled again into something new.
Anywhoo, that’s what I think.
Drawing
I like to sketch quite a bit. Portraits and still life mainly. Just for practice. (And for my own insecurity to prove to people I can actually draw.) Kind of.
So, there you have it. (My) 2020 in colour.
All of my artwork is for sale should you wish to terrify anyone this Christmas. Just message me for details.
It just remains for me to wish you a very happy Christmas, if you celebrate that sort of thing. And/or very happy holidays if you don’t.
I’m going to finish off this series with a look at some abstract paintings I’ve produced during lockdown. Remember, the point of this series is to show if art has had a positive or negative effect on both my mental health and the type of art I’ve been producing this year.
If you’ve been following my posts, you’ll know that last year was quite a tumultuous one for me (and my loved ones) on the mental health front. And this was most definitely reflected in the type of art I was producing at the time. You can see it here: Adieu 2019.
In previous ‘reflections on lockdown‘ we’ve looked at portraits, landscapes and photography. Today, I’m going to look at abstract art. Lucky you.
I used to struggle with abstract art. I didn’t ‘get’ it.
It was only when I began volunteering at Arc that I saw how expressive a medium it is. Not to be bound by the constraints of realism or representation. To be able to express form through colour, shape and texture. The marks you leave behind can convey emotions and energy that are often difficult in representative art.
One of the reasons I love making abstract art is because I don’t feel like it’s ‘me’ that’s doing it. When I am doing a sketch of a face or a landscape, I have to concentrate very hard to capture a likeness of what I am trying to represent. When I do abstract art, I let go… I stop being so uptight. I let the colours merge and intermingle to become the painting they wanted to be. Sometimes, when I look at how the colours interfuse and coalesce, they remind me of distant nebula.
I am neither conscious nor concentrating. It is as though that ‘thing‘ we are all connected to – Mother Earth, the Universe, the unconscious, the Cosmos, God(dess), call it what you will, is flowing through me onto the page or canvas.
I don’t know what you’ll make of that last paragraph. I’m not sure I know what to make of it!
Except that, I can thoroughly recommend giving abstract expressionism a go. It’s very liberating. It’s also extremely calming and meditative.
Have a look at the works of Kandinsky, Miro, Mondrian, Rothko, Pollock and Krasner to see the vastly differing styles of abstract art. There might be something there to inspire you.
SOLDSOLDSOLDSOLD
If you, or someone you know, are experiencing mental health issues, call your GP or self refer to your local mental health team, (usually based at your local hospital).
If things are a bit more urgent than that you can call the Samaritans for free on 116 123. Or call the NHS on 111, they will treat your illness as seriously as they do any other.
If you want to see more of my photos and artwork follow me on Instagram: @milligancroft
I like drawing landscapes. There’s something very relaxing about it. Painting them, on the other hand, is a different kettle of fish.
Sketching is more about observation and trying to depict a representation of the landscape. Whereas, painting is more about trying to capture the energy of nature. (With varying degrees of success.)
Here’s a selection for you to ponder.
Yorkshire DalesYorkshire DalesA village in Italy. (From a photo.)Jenkin Chapel, Saltersford, Cheshire.Top Withins, Haworth/Stanbury, West Yorkshire.Yorkshire Dales.Yorkshire Dales.Yorkshire Dales.Yorkshire Dales.Yorkshire Dales.
If you, or someone you know, are experiencing mental health issues, call your GP or self refer to your local mental health team, (usually based at your local hospital).
If things are a bit more urgent than that you can call the Samaritans for free on 116 123. Or call the NHS on 111, they will treat your illness as seriously as they do any other.
If you want to see more of my photos and artwork follow me on Instagram: @milligancroft
Welcome to the third instalment of Reflections on Lockdown. Today, I’ll be focussing on nature and photography.
One of the things my children and I have been doing a lot more of during lockdown is getting out into the beautiful countryside that is on our doorstep. In the early days of lockdown, we’d just drive around and not get out of the car. More recently, we’ll go for a wander making sure to wear masks and social distance. Not that we see any bugger else where we go.
Where I live in the North West of England is on the edge of the Peak District, East Cheshire and the Yorkshire Dales. We’re truly blessed to have such stunning scenery so close by.
So, this post is as much about the benefits of being in and around nature as it is about art. The art aspect is the photographs I take along the journey. (And yes, I saturate the bejaysus out of them when I get home.) In my defence, manipulating the images only brings out what is already there in nature. It just needs teasing out.
Apparently, spending two hours per week is scientifically, (yes, scientifically), proven to lower blood pressure, reduce stress hormone levels and boost the immune system. (Amongst other things.) A bit of old vitamin D from the sun can’t hurt either.
We’re lucky in that we have a car. But you don’t have to go miles to get your daily dose of nature. There are plenty of parks and urban green spaces to get your fix. Take a few snaps on your phone, or even take a sketch pad with you.
Here are a few shots I’ve taken over the last few months. I’ll try to put where they are if I can remember.
St Stephen’s church in Macclesfield Forest, East Cheshire.I think this is Rishworth Moor, Ripponden, West Yorkshire.Tegg’s Nose, Macclesfield, East Cheshire.Macclesfield Forest reservoir, East Cheshire.Baslow, Derbyshire, Peak District.Saltersford, East Cheshire.Snake Pass, Peak District.St Thomas’ church, Higher Hillgate, Stockport.Wildboarclough, East Cheshire.River Wye, Bakewell, Derbyshire.Goyt Valley, East Cheshire.Goyt Valley, East Cheshire.Goyt Valley, East Cheshire.Hebden Bridge, West Yorkshire.Somewhere near Halifax, West Yorkshire.Hebden Bridge (sort of), West Yorkshire.Near Haworth-ish, West Yorkshire.To be fair, this could be anywhere.No idea. On the way to Buxton, Derbyshire.Errm…A wall. And a field. Extreme close up of a wall somewhere in Northern England. Possibly.A puddle.Somewhere in the Peak District.Winnats Pass, Speedwell Cavern, Peak District.
So, we’re starting to build a picture as to the state of my mental health during lockdown and the role that art has played in my recovery. I hope you enjoy this instalment of ‘Reflections of Lockdown’.
If you, or someone you know, are experiencing mental health issues, call your GP or self refer to your local mental health team, (usually based at your local hospital).
If things are a bit more urgent than that you can call the Samaritans for free on 116 123. Or call the NHS on 111, they will treat your illness as seriously as they do any other.
If you want to see more of my photos and artwork follow me on Instagram: @milligancroft
If you’ve ever done it before you’ll know that you can get some really cosmic patterns. You’ll also know that you’ve probably got more leftover samples of the stuff than you can shake a big shaky thing at.
So … what to do with all those cosmic castoffs … I know, let’s make a collage.
Start by cutting out shapes from your marbling masterpiece that you want to use in your composition and glue them onto a piece of paper.
Next, sketch in the rest of the composition. Add a bit of a felt tip outline.
I filled in the background with chalk pastel, but you could easily use felt tip, watercolour paint, pencil crayon or coloured paper.
And there you have it – you’ve made art out of art.
There is one other thing…
And, it’s probably the best bit. But I didn’t realise that until it was too late. Instead of cutting the shapes out of your marbling sample willy-nilly like I did, cut them out in the same position that you’re going to stick them on your paper. That way, when you position them next to each other you get a sort of positive/negative effect.
Hindsight? Serendipity? Whatever.
If you haven’t done marbling before you can use off-cuts of old patterned wallpaper, pictures from magazines or gift wrap paper. Or even paint an abstract background and use that.
It’s one more thing to do until the schools reopen in September!
If you want loads more of art activities to do you can sign up to Arc’s free ‘Keeping us together‘ programme. They email you a different art activity every week. (Arc is a brilliant Arts charity based in Stockport.)
And remember, folks – Art is Medicine*!
*Do not swallow art like medicine. It might kill you.
**I am not a trained physician.
***’Art is medicine’ is only my opinion and not a scientific fact.
This is a new poem I’ve been working on for the past couple of weeks. It’s not about Black Lives Matter, but it was inspired by it. Or rather, the silence of the white majority to the unfair and unjust treatment of black people and people of colour. The implicit violence that silence can bring.
That is the only connection – silence. And how crushing it can be.
Please be advised that the following poem contains harrowing themes.
The Violence of Silence.
By David Milligan-Croft.
The smirk,
The eyeroll,
The sigh.
The undoing,
The redoing,
The restacking the dishwasher,
The recapping the toothpaste.
The elbow grease on the bath,
The busying of the dishcloth.
The fingertrail in the dust,
The torment,
The subterfuge,
The game.
The song unplayed on the turntable,
The needle stuck in the groove.
The portrait on the wall,
Staring into an unseeable space.
The spent match.
The sheet music on the stand.
The dried paintbrush.
The gagged canvas.
The unwritten manuscript,
Of characters without a story,
Or Motive.
The spoon in the can.
The creeping mould.
The hungry bottle,
The greedy glass.
The torn betting stub.
The baby shoes in their box.
The unworn party dress.
The deflated balloon.
The candle wax on the cake.
The forlorn swing.
The jury’s gaze.
The unwound watch,
Ticking in your head.
The heaving chest,
The eyes cast down,
Searching the floor for an escape route.
The unanswered call.
The empty wardrobe.
The rosary beads on the dresser.
The bulging suitcase.
The silent doorbell.
The ‘closed’ sign on the shop.
Fallen petals on a florist’s floor.
The midnight car lot.
The despondent moon.
The fallen tree in the forest.
The charred embers.
The ripple without a stone.
The starling without a murmuration.
The stalking wolf.
The disused canal.
The stagnant water.
The ghost of a railway line.
The forbidden tunnel.
Fragments of a life unlived;
Or lived.
Who knows?
Or cares.
The drop of the body,
From the bridge.
Falling
Into the darkness.
Silence.
The stoic rocks.
Then violence.
The relevance of the cello piece? I adore the cello and I thought the subject matter of the poem suited the haunting and melancholy sound. If you are familiar with the lyrics of Chandelier by Sia, you’ll see why I chose it as an accompaniment.
David Milligan-Croft
