“I kept turning pages in my mind I kept crossing paths and crossing lines And I saw more Than these doors and corridors“
– Clare Bowen, ‘Doors and Corridors’
I feel like I’ve been much more negative than usual in recent months and it really isn’t sitting right with me. The point of this blog has always been to concentrate on the positive and burble away in a (hopefully) relatively entertaining way. There are a myriad little reasons (nothing life-altering, but lots of deep-rooted irritations) to explain why my attitude has become a little more ‘survive’ and a little less ‘thrive’ recently but I’m damned if I’m going to let external factors keep dulling my sparkle and enjoyment of life any longer.
To try and combat my annoyance* with various things at school, I decided to start a Writers’ Group. We are going to meet on a Wednesday lunchtime to see if we can develop a (deeper) love for creative writing. Being a lunchtime club, it is, of course, voluntary … which meant that on the first Wednesday I had absolutely no idea who would turn up. Or indeed, if anyone would turn up. Half of me was expecting that I’d be sitting there all alone *can you hear the sounds of a tiny violin?* in my room. I mean, what self-respecting teenager wants to spend their meagre lunchtime thinking about English, and words, and writing? Happily, that half of me was, well, in a word, wrong.
I had about ten students, which was perfect. I didn’t want too many; that would have just meant I didn’t have the ability to speak to each of them on an individual basis. I also didn’t want just one or two; I’d really like this to be something interactive and that’s just plain difficult if there’s only a couple of kids there. I explained how I thought it would work and then we got on with it.
Now, our lunchtime is a grand total of twenty five minutes long … which is going to make this a bit of a challenge at times. It’s hard to deliver a new idea, get the kids going on it and get any meaningful writing down on paper in such a short period of time. But we shall do our best.
For the first session, I’d come up with a couple of different ideas, but decided to roll with the concept of cut up poetry. I hadn’t had the time (or the forethought … I mean, how does Wednesday roll around quite so quickly every week?) to ask students to bring any printed material with them, so I raided my stash of past issues of Wanderlust magazine and photocopied lots of random pages because they’re so beautiful, I just couldn’t bear to chop them up.
We cut and snipped and chose our words. If I’m honest, I let them choose their words first and decided I would work with whatever was left. We didn’t have a lot of time and we mostly got our words chosen and stashed away in poly-pockets to work on at home. It was really lovely to see how enthusiastic the kids were about crafting something. I’ve seen a couple of the poems they created since and they are beautiful.
It’s surprisingly therapeutic to sort through someone else’s words and choose the ones that resonate best in your own head. I spent a happy couple of hours playing with words, moving phrases around and substituting something that worked a little better. This was where I got to: It’s not the most profound piece of writing, but it pleased me at the time.
The following week’s challenge was very different. In August, I read Gareth Brown’s ‘Book of Doors and it stuck with me (well worth a read if you’re looking for a book recommendation). The idea that doorways can be made interchangeable is a very appealing one. Stand in front of any door, clearly visualise the door you want to walk through, open the door and step into your chosen location. How fantastic would that be? To be able to travel anywhere in the world without the hassle of airports and traffic and parking.
So I spent a happy Sunday afternoon Googling doors around the world until I had a collection of varied, beautiful, colourful, decrepit, and just plain weird pictures of doors. I printed them, cut them all out and got ready to deliver my challenge: for them to choose a door that spoke to them and write a response. If they went through their door, where would they end up? What would they find? How would it feel?
I got a bit sidetracked then by a student who’d popped in for a last minute chat about an abbreviated version of ‘An Inspector Calls’ that they were performing the following day. A great chat, but inconveniently timed; I ran out of time having given the group very little input and was really worried they’d think I didn’t care and would drift away and not bother turning up today. Which made it all the more wonderful when I had some extras come to join us today. Betsy wandered through the door, full of apologies because she’d forgotten her notebook; could she possibly grab some paper to work on today. Iris scuttled in a couple of minutes late, having had to brave the cafeteria queues to get some lunch. Gabi, Lilly and Poppy waited ages before quietly saying, “Have you got any spare books, miss, it’s the first time we’ve been?”
We had a look at a local, Norwich based, writing competition that they could submit some work to and then we got on with writing. I think we all jumped when the bell rang to signal the end of lunchtime. I can’t wait to see what they produce.
If you’re interested, this is my door. It’s a photo that I took in Rouen last August, and I just love it. There’s something about the air of gentile decay that you find so often in French towns that really appeals to me … and who doesn’t love a bit of graffiti to spice things up?
* I have just realised that there is no noun form of the verb ‘to irk’ and if I’m honest, this feels like an egregious shortcoming in the English language. Irkation? (Following the examples of irritation, exasperation and vexation) or irkance? (Following annoyance, inconvenience and nuisance**)
** Even more vexatiously, there is no longer a verb form of ‘nuisance’. In the Middle Ages, from about 1350 to 1500, it used to exist. The verb was ‘nuise’, from the Latin ‘nocēre’, by way of the French ‘nuisir’***. And they just let it die out. Leaving us with a random gap in our language. English really is a constant trial to those of us that like a little bit of logic with our imagination!
“A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.”
– Ernest Hemingway
Just a quick share today as I didn’t manage to organise myself very well and the more detailed posts that I started planning are still very much in the planning stage. Let’s (very charitably) call them ‘works in progress’.
I get many pictures drawn on my board, and they range from the artistic to the absolutely ridiculous, through something that can only be referred to using the acronym WTF?. Charlie tends towards the former, with stylised cartoons that make me smile.
This delightful little creature was what greeted me at the end of lunchtime yesterday. I don’t know whether it was because she was feeling a little anxious, or whether anxiety in general was just on her mind (or maybe she has a very anxious cat), but either way, he was a great companion for the afternoon lessons.
He has been replaced today by a Christmas dinosaur. Very festive, but somehow not quite as endearing.
“Bring back, bring back the leaf. Bring back the reed and the reef, set the ice sheet back on its frozen plinth, tuck the restless watercourse into its bed, sit the glacier down on its highland throne, put the snow cap back on the mountain peak.”
– Simon Armitage, ‘Ark’
Autumn.
It’s a montage of tiny details, flickering past, as you traverse the changing landscapes.
This morning’s mist was beginning to slowly burn off when I left the house. Or, at least, it was trying to … it hasn’t quite managed to dissipate as I’m writing, and it’s now three o’clock. It was perhaps a little more set in than it first appeared. It was that particular kind of mist that you only really get in autumn; the light was bright and warm, bringing out the colours in the foliage, but diffuse, constantly reinforcing the changing season.
The path alongside the battleground was clinging to the moisture in the air, stringing tiny diamonds along every strand of spider’s web, spritzing every leaf along the woodland front with glitter. Colours were just beginning to emerge; we haven’t really had any properly cold mornings yet, and there’s still a lot of green in the leaves. The hawthorn was racing ahead, though, its leaves ranging from the brightest of buttercup yellow to a deep bronzed burgundy.
On my right, a bank of rosebay willowherb towered high above my head, its leaves fuschia pink, bright orange, and lime green. The fluff that carries its seeds was damp and matted, a textured contrast to the smooth stems. And across it all were strung delicate strands of diamond dust.
Spooky season may be here, but this was the bedazzled version.
“Trolls can smell the rainbow, trolls can smell the stars. Trolls can smell the dreams you dreamed before you were ever born.”
– Neil Gaiman, ‘Troll Bridge’
Because the French had closed a section of motorway (I mean, why wouldn’t they do that in the middle of tourist season?), we were obviously looking for a different way out of Rouen that avoided the horrific queues we’d seen on the way in. Logically, that meant going round the left-hand side and then making our way across the top to rejoin the motorway leading back to Calais. Which meant looking at the map to make sure we could do that without going through Sotteville. This took some time and an extensive search … and because of this search, we discovered the forêt monumentale at the Forêt domaniale de Roumare. Proof that sometimes, things seem to happen for a reason!
The forêt monumentale is a sculpture trail through the forest, organised by the Metropole Rouen Normandie and the Office National des Forêts. It is designed to allow the public to “explore the remarkable natural environment from a different perspective.” The Roumare forest is, slightly weirdly, attached to what feels like a housing estate. One minute, you’re driving round endless roundabouts, surrounded by supermarkets and houses, the next you’ve pulled up in a carpark next to an expanse of wild forest. The version of the trail that is open today is the second edition; looking at the signage, each one seems to stay open for about a year and a half before it’s reset and the sculptures are replaced with new ones. Although the path is perhaps a little more developed than I expected, I suppose that makes it more accessible to everyone; we certainly saw lots of people pushing pushchairs, running, and riding bikes.
The first sculpture along the trail was almost within sight of the carpark. This felt like an odd choice until we worked out that perhaps we weren’t the only ones who took it as a good sign that we were in the right place (Our map reading skills were on point!). The piece, titled ‘The World in an Acorn’ (Le Monde Dans un Gland) took the form of a giant acorn. Laser cut from plywood, the scales at its base were placed in a perfect Fibonacci spiral. When we explored inside the body of the seed, these scales almost formed a rose window, like a cathedral raised to nature. The sunlight flooding through the aperture created shades and tones and beautiful shadows.
The second installation was a few hundred yards further along the path. Titled The Stubble (Les Chaumes), it consisted of three organically shaped and leaning thatched huts, each with a doorway and at least one other opening. The (ever so slightly conflicting) signs encouraged people to enter the huts, climb to the second level inside and peer through the openings. They also told people that it was ‘interdit’ to climb on the buildings. Given that my sister is the most accident prone person I’ve ever met, breaking her foot by falling off a pavement and requiring not one but two surgeries on her hand after falling off the first step of a step-ladder, we decided not to climb on anything, although I did peer inside the buildings. They were surprisingly (perhaps just because I’m British and I know what would happen at home) free of litter, clean and odour free. They reminded me of Norfolk thatched buildings and made me wonder where I would find thatched buildings in Normandy. I can’t say I’ve ever noticed any, but my slow and halting translation of the sign suggested (I think) that it was a local building technique. I loved the way that the artist had positioned the buildings in a way which used an old tree stump to suggest a camp fire. It was also lovely to see the way that the thatch was starting to thin and fray round the edges, revealing the seedheads of the Phragmites sp. that had been used to form it and returning to nature as dust. It was easy to imagine that the buildings, if left there permanently, would eventually crumble and disappear.
We wandered further through the forest as the sun emerged from behind the clouds. Round a corner, we came across ‘Herd’. This group of nine sculptures was formed from twisted branches fixed to a steel frame. They reminded me of the sculptures at Grizedale Forest in the Lake District and the deer at Gordon Woodland, although more sturdy somehow, more solid and substantial. The animals appear out of nowhere between the trees, just like the real thing. The artist wanted to create an “impromptu fairytale effect” for visitors to highlight the importance of local fauna and natural environments. It seems that they had originally been finished with thin twigs to create an impression of bristles, but these had disappeared over time. It was gratifying to see several families exploring the sculptures, the children walking around the animals, touching them and talking about them with their parents. I felt bad for how long it was taking me to decipher the signage and tried to let them in front of us, but they very politely declined and stood back to wait. It always amazes me how much better behaved small children are in France; they have a very different style of parenting and it seems to work beautifully.
The next installation was a mere hop, skip, and jump down the trail. The Mist Catcher (L’Attrape-Brume) was a web of string suspended between the trees, from which thousands of glass drops had been suspended. I really wanted to love this, but it fell just a little bit short. I think it was to do with the light at the time we were there. There was something about the amount of sunlight, the leaves of the canopy, and the angle that meant that the droplets weren’t illuminated effectively. On a different day at a different time, I think it would have been brilliant. Literally as well as figuratively. Off we went.
This was one of the strangest sculptures; not because of the pieces themselves, but because of the name. This was entitled ‘Camels’. Now, I don’t know about you, but in my opinion, these are the weirdest looking camels I’ve ever seen. The description claimed that they are “somewhere between a camel, a dinosaur, a gourd, and the spirit of the forest,” and I’m pretty sure they forgot to mention the sci-fi element! The ‘bodies’ were made of woven wicker, and they were perched atop slender steel legs. I will admit that I was looking for maple legs, but it turns out that ‘acier’ means steel and is not connected to the word ‘acer’ at all. That’ll teach me to guess!! Like so many of the other sculptures, this was a commentary on global warning and was using the incongruity of camels in the Norman countryside as an allegory for a future in which the climate has changed so much that they do fit in. A sobering thought as we stood in the green shade of a deciduous wood, cool even though the external temperatures were soaring.
The next piece was one of my favourites. ‘The Sacred Forest’ (La Forêt Sacree) surrounded the path, meaning that we felt fully immersed. It was a truly stunning piece, despite its simplicity. The artist had overlaid the floorplan of Rouen Cathedral into the forest and used an environmentally friendly latex based paint to create the colours of stained glass and turn trees into the kind of imposing columns found in the cathedral. The colours were sublime, changing as the leaves shifted and moved, becoming more intense or paler, depending on how much sunlight was on them at any given time. We spent a long time just standing in this space, marvelling at the sense of peace that we found there. The artist asked visitors to “ponder the interconnectivity of humanity and nature, the divine and the earthly,” something that was difficult to avoid doing, even without being told. Try enlarging the last photo and staring for a while; I guarantee you’ll find yourself drifting into the forest. This piece was created as a tribute to Agustin Ibarrola, a Spanish painter who specialised in tree painting and nature art, including the Bosque de Oma in Spain. Definitely someone whose art I want to explore further.
Around the corner, the path become grassier and narrower, which did create some moments where I had to leap into the undergrowth to avoid a couple of slightly insane cyclists, but deepened the sense of being part of the forest. The next sculpture wasn’t as obvious as some of the others, but created some interesting questions. This was called ‘A Ladder to Heaven’ and consisted of a ladder mounted on springs at the base, but unfixed at its apex. Two human figures stand on the rungs of the ladder to give it some scale. The installation is designed to highlight the scale of the natural landscape and the sky above it. The ladder moves in the wind, creating a vertiginous effect as you gaze upwards. Entertainingly, the first rungs of the ladder start about ten feet off the ground and there is a perspex sheet bolted over the first few rungs as well. Clearly, the installers had some experience of the idiocy of ‘the public’ and were taking no chances that anyone could attempt to scale the ladder! Probably sensible, if I’m honest; I’ve met the public.
In a change of pace, the next installation was situated in an area of reed and rush, a damp oasis in the mostly dry forest. ‘Compluvium’ is all about water. Despite its huge size and geometric form, this structure was uncannily able to blend with its surroundings. The signage also promised that it would all but disappear at dusk – not that we were there to experience this, ferry to catch and all that. Its wooden structure was overlaid with two layers, one of waterproof fibreglass cloth and one of rough linen fabric in a greenish-grey, which allowed light to pass through. Inside, the centre of the roof was open to the elements and a metal trough was placed underneath to catch rain. I can imagine that it’s a lovely space to sit during a rainstorm, each droplet striking the trough melodically to create a soundscape of the forest. We visited in the dry though and found only an oasis of shade inside, shadows cast on the walls and floor like cyanotype prints.
I wasn’t really a fan of the next one; it reminded me of nothing more than a kids’ adventure playground in the beer garden of a pub. ‘Green Cathedral’ (Cathédrale de Verte) was supposed to illuminate the links between the soaring columns of a forest and the interior of a cathedral. I understood the link that the artist was trying to make between the architecture of Rouen and the forest that surrounds it, but I really felt that this piece fell short. The nets that form the walls are supposed to allow Jasmine plants to climb up them, but not only was there very little growth, despite the installation having been in place for over a year, but I also felt that encouraging things to grow up it and then removing the structure was a misstep. I also had some concerns about introducing jasmine plants to a wild space. I did like the view through the circular window along the ribs of the ceiling structure, though.
The next piece was titled ‘A Sonic River of Possibility’ (Une Riviere Sonore du Possible). The artist Will Menter (who I think is British) sees himself as both a visual artist and a musician. Here, he has used thin planks of oak, suspended on wires to create an instrument played by the wind. Each plank has carved lines on it that allow the note it plays to be tuned accurately. In between each plank, a hull shaped piece strikes the planks when the leaf shaped piece below it catches the wind. Visitors were encouraged to play with the piece, creating their own music. We heard the piece before we saw it; a group of lovely French cyclists were just ahead of us. They also took pity on me and allowed me to finish translating the sign before drifting over to read it themselves. Mental note: must practice and learn to read French quicker!!
The penultimate installation was an egg-shaped structure, about eight feet tall, covered in mirror tiles and mounted on a structure that allows it to spin. ‘The Plasticizers’ (Les Plasticiens) is a kinetic sculpture with handles that allow visitors to spin it at various speeds. As the “ovoid monolith” spins, the tiles catch the sunlight and spin it into tiny diamonds that create movement around the glade in which it stands. The movement of the light makes it feel like you are surrounded by natural movement; flocks of birds settling in the tree branches, small mammals scuttling across the floor or clouds of butterflies settling on the vegetation. It’s a odd sensation as it’s almost entirely silent where your brain wants the movement to have sound attached. Despite the sense of joy attached to this one, we moved on fairly quickly as neither of us have eyes that can deal with moving points of light for too long without descending into migraine.
The final piece of the trail was my absolute favourite. Meet ‘Gargan of the Invisible City’, by Thomas Dambo. Every forest needs an invisible city for the trolls. I feel like this should be a rule or something.
A small house, to warm you and shelter dreams by the thousand,
They think it’s nothing and forget that the stars shine in daytime too.
Blink twice, then close your eyes and see my wonderful dream,
An invisible city somewhere eyes cannot see.
The city has been created from recycled materials donated by the local recycling centre and a pallet company. Tiny touches of whimsy could be seen throughout the build, a spindle holding up a roof, a toilet set acting as a window, twisted tree branches in place of manmade railings and road signs as cladding. Gargan is the name of the troll who sprawls between buildings. Hugging a tree and with a birdbox strung around his neck, he is clearly the guardian of this patch of forest. Dambo has created a trail of trolls that span the globe and highlight the importance of recycling in today’s world. The map of these installations can be found here:
A French grandmother was sitting in this ‘city’, supposedly supervising her two very young grandchildren who were climbing and generally enjoying the space. I say supposedly because when we arrived, she was hunched over her phone, clearly scrolling on the internet. Once we arrived, however, she stood up and actively tried her very best to get in the way of any photos we were taking, going as far as encouraging her grandchildren to do the same. At one point, she told her grandson that the space was for children … as she lifted him up onto the troll’s leg in the middle of my photo. We were very obviously ensuring that our photos did not include them in any way, especially the children, but she made it very hard. Of all the people we encountered in France, she was one of the very few who were deliberately unpleasant, and I can’t even tell you why. I’m not entirely sure she understood that this installation was part of a sculpture trail and not just a kids’ playground. Never mind, we enjoyed it anyway. I’m now trying to work out which other trolls I can visit ….. yet another side quest in my life 😂.
absolutelynotnormal 