Layby: how some of the best art collections in the world have been made.

Fleur Wickes 26/03/2020 Fleur Wickes 26/03/2020

Day 01, 26 March 2020

Drew this. ⁠⁣ Because here we are. ⁠⁣ Together. ⁠⁣⁣Us. ⁠⁣

Drew this. ⁠⁣

⁣⁠⁣

⁣Because here we are. ⁠⁣

⁣Together. ⁠⁣

⁣Us. ⁠⁣

⁣⁠⁣

⁣Us in our homes.⁠⁣

⁣Us in our self-prescribed bubbles.⁠⁣

⁣Us in our country.⁠⁣

⁣⁠⁣

⁣We are here doing this.⁠⁣

⁣Together.⁠⁣

⁣⁠⁣

⁣Us⁠⁣

⁣is a powerful word⁠⁣

⁣at the best ⁠⁣

⁣of times.⁠⁣

⁣⁠⁣

⁣Now⁠⁣

⁣it means ⁠⁣

⁣so ⁠⁣

⁣much⁠⁣

⁣more.⁠⁣

⁣⁠⁣[Here there is us is available as a limited edition studioprint]

Fleur Wickes 08/03/2020 Fleur Wickes 08/03/2020

The hope of my body

I’ve had these words on the wall above where I work, for thirty years. I typed them out on the typewriter I wrote my first poetry on.

The hope of the body, on my workroom wall, 2020

I’ve had these words on the wall above where I work, for thirty years. I typed them out on the typewriter I wrote my first poetry on. The photograph you see here is of a copy of a copy of a copy of the original piece of paper, long since too tattered to be particularly readable. The words come from a James K Baxter poem, as part of his Pig Island Letters sequence. There are two truths for my life contained within these two stanzas, but, in the way of poetry, the meaning remains mysterious and the only way to respond is with poetry of my own.

The first:

“for what we did not have: that hunger caught
Each of us, and left us burnt,
Split open, grit-dry, sifting the ash of thought.”

I responded with this:

For me, it’s the idea that it’s all those things that hurt us also shape us, drive us forward, make us determined to really live.

The second:

“The hope of the body was coherent love.”

Those words rang so true for me but I never could quite work out what they meant - my eyes flicked to the sentence nearly every day, it still remained like a beautiful dream half-remembered on waking, the meaning of which you can’t catch - the dream drifting away from you the more you try to hold onto it.

Recently though, I fell in love wth a man I’ve been waiting my whole life to find, and all of a sudden James K’s words came clear. The hope of my body was love I could understand . That’s what coherent love is. Love your body can understand, that you can feel with your whole heart.

In response, I wrote these words, made this painting.

The hope of my body
has always been this:
You and I
lying in the light
of a gentle room
learning the language
of our kisses.
You feel like home.

And now, maybe, finally, I can take James K’s words off the wall. Find new territory to explore.

Fleur Wickes 15/09/2019 Fleur Wickes 15/09/2019

Always to the stars, 2019

I’ve reached for the stars my whole life.

When I was young and felt invincible, the stars represented my dreams. I wanted to be the just like the best and brightest of them, believing that with hard work and little luck, my skill and talent would make me shine and shimmer like they did. The stars were inspirational, aspirational. Especially on those not-a-breath-of-wind-cloud-in-the-sky late summer’s evenings. The kind where you walk for an hour along the shoreline, head up to the twinkling, head down to the glorious reflection in the wet sand, and the whole sky feels like it’s there for the taking.

I’ve reached for the stars my whole life.

When I was young and felt invincible, the stars represented my dreams. I wanted to be the just like the best and brightest of them, believing that with hard work and little luck, my skill and talent would make me shine and shimmer like they did. The stars were inspirational, aspirational. Especially on those not-a-breath-of-wind-cloud-in-the-sky late summer’s evenings. The kind where you walk for an hour along the shoreline, head up to the twinkling, head down to their glorious reflection in the wet sand, and the whole sky feels like it’s there for the taking.

I like that self of mine, arrogant as she was. Reaching for a such a high and distant goal is a wonderful thing. You ain’t gonna get nowhere staring at the concrete. But god, when I started out I was so full of it. Full of myself. Full of my dreams and future glory and very little else. I didn’t realise then how tough the journey would be, how impossible it would feel so very often.

Life sure did get in the way of all that stargazing. Setbacks and disappointments and failure and grief and trauma and marriage and babies and kids and being worn out from the grind. Life’s gotten so dark sometimes.

When the days were the blackest of black, I felt very small, my life a tiny box I was almost suffocating in. The stars were so important to me. I would be in my bedroom after I’d gotten my son to sleep, feeling grey and numb, and I’d take a peek out the curtains, across the garden and out to sea, and I’d look for just one star above the dark horizon. I was too afraid then of all the shadows [that were mostly within me] to go outside to look. I was too broken to wish for a whole sky of stars. On those bleak evenings, it was enough to see one small flick of light through the cloudcover, to remind myself there was light in the world, and that there would again be light in me. Stars are hope, and right then, I felt like hope was all I had.

I’ve come so far from that woman. She’s like someone I used to know. Thank christ. I’m out of the shadows and damn I’ve stepped into some fierce light.

I’m no longer young, I’m no longer so full of myself - all the wank and puff has been worn off by the stormy weather. Which makes me very happy indeed. I’m in what I hope to be the middle of my life. I know who I am, my feet are firmly on the ground. But you know what, my chin’s still up, looking at those stars. Difference is,I’m not reaching for a whole sky of them. I’d like just one. That one star twinkling gently in exactly my shape, with my name written all over it.

A girl’s gotta dream.

++++

[This artwork is available as this open edition print, so if you love it you can have it for your very own.]

Seen in this video in situ during the tenderness project.

An artwork I made, in situ, for *the tenderness project* 2019

Fleur Wickes 12/09/2019 Fleur Wickes 12/09/2019

Tenderness [ballerina] 2019

I made this artwork for an exhibition of the same name: Tenderness.

What is tenderness?

Google gives a definition in two parts: 1. gentleness and kindness; kindliness. 2. sensitivity to pain; soreness.

I made this artwork for an exhibition of the same name: Tenderness.

What is tenderness?

Google gives a definition in two parts: 1. gentleness and kindness; kindliness. 2. sensitivity to pain; soreness.

Tenderness is always both a feeling and the verb.. In order to feel gentleness and kindness, you have to open yourself up. The risk and flipside to opening up is that you also become tender in the other sense - you’ve got more of an ability to feel pain.

And so, my ballerina dances on a tightrope. Open wide to delightful feeling, almost dancing towards it - at the same time aware she could fall and get hurt. But she’s got grace and determination, this woman. She’s not afraid to lean into loving, she ain’t afraid to fall. Because if she does, she’ll get right back up, and any bruises she’s got will have been so worth it, because the feeling of tenderness, of being wide open to feeling, is the best pleasure in the whole damn world.

I made this photograph by first writing the word tenderness on a piece of paper, then placing the glass rectangle paperweight which held the ballerina on top of the paper. I then shot through the glass. I then worked in Photoshop to create the texture , colour and areas of sharpness. The colour red for tenderness is very purposeful. It’s the colour of love and passion, and also of course, of our blood. Our blood is the thing which courses in us, makes us passionate for someone, makes us want to give and receive tenderness. It’s also the thing that feels like it’s spilt when we’re cut deep by the ending of love, which comes to us all in some form or other in a fully lived life.

In Phoebe’s room during the tenderness project, 2019.

Of course, context is everything. Seen here above Phoebe’s bed during the tenderness project, my ballerina turns into hope and dreams and sweetness. I especially love the wee knitted toy in the bottom of this shot, which is Phoebe’s childhood favourite.

Framed in a gentle white frame, with archival mounting and museum glass.

The artwork is produced as an exhibition print, A1 [59.4x84.1]cm in size, in a limited edition of 5, plus artist proof. It is shown here in a gentle white frame, with beautiful museum glass.

Fleur Wickes 02/08/2018 Fleur Wickes 02/08/2018

IN L AND B's UNFINISHED BEDROOM

L bought this artwork for her husband, B, for his 50th birthday. When I was at her home in Wellington the other day, she talked about how she'd wanted to show me the artwork in the finished room [they're in the middle of renovations] but kindly let me in to their bedroom anyway, and let me take photographs, too.

Instead of being put off by the lack of "done-ness" in the room, my heart skipped a beat. It just seems so right that this artwork, talking about being laid down with a gentle hand, is situated above the bed in a room which is a work-in-progress in a marriage which is a work in progress, too. Because all marriages and relationships and lives are, aren't they? Works in progress.

The light falling across the bed, light made more beautiful by the contrasting shadow. The flowers on the nightshade of what I imagine is "her" side of the bed, because she often wears those flowers in her hair. The pendant made by hand by their lovely 18 year old art-student daughter.

This room tells their story.

Silently, it's walls and objects and, yes the artwork, speak of the life lived here, and the relationship played out. And not just the "good and perfect and public" parts either.

This is what the private rooms in our domestic spaces always do: They tell our story.

Which is exactly why I love having exhibitions in domestic spaces. Because that is what I want to do with my work. Stand up and say,
I am here,
this is who I am.
And I want to say it as fully and deeply as I can.

[ Thanks, L and B for letting me share this. ]

BTW, there are other prints left in the edition of 5 this artwork, so yeah you could have this artwork too, for your own private space. FYI.

Fleur Wickes 19/07/2018 Fleur Wickes 19/07/2018

WHAT IS DEEP WITHIN US IS WRITTEN ALL OVER US

I’ve been sitting with the photographs I made of L for a few weeks now. I’ve come to really like this one. The photograph combines her gentle kindness with her fierce strength, and those are the very characteristics I see in her.

We all carry our history with us, eh.

In our bodies,

in our faces,

in the stories we tell ourselves.

What is deep within us is written all over us.

That’s why how we present on the outside is in no way skin-deep.

Fleur Wickes 18/07/2018 Fleur Wickes 18/07/2018

BOUQUET

I completed a very difficult task today. Difficult for me, anyway. I’ve been stressing over this for weeks. And I mean weeks.

Yesterday I hit a low point and I lay in the bath paralysed with fear and felt like running away and giving up. Giving up the idea I had. Giving up on bloody everything. With help from a dear friend and my business coach, I saw my fear for what it was. Just fear. Old fear. Old stories. Flight, fight, freeze. A classic pattern I’ve rerun nearly my whole life.

BUT I was able to get over my fear and I bloody well did it. I DID IT. I freaking did it! This thing I did is a milestone for me. Regardless of the outcome. Jesus wept getting over my fear is success already.

In the rush of excitement after completion, I grabbed a bit of charcoal, literally ran into my bedroom and drew on the walls like a child. God, the welcome release. We all it need it, eh. Release.

Plus. Bonus. I’m not gonna get told off for scribbling because I’m my own woman, and I can do what I want.

Jesus I feel good.

I feel good.

I watched Broadchurch last night. One of the characters talked about not letting the people who have hurt you win. Not letting fear win. Not letting darkness win. Today was one of those days where I felt like I freaking triumphed against all that damn bs. I won.

Yeah for sure I’ve won the battle and not necessarily the war but hey all you can ever do is try from one moment to the next. Keep putting one foot in front of the other with clear intention and you get somewhere you wanna be.

Thanks JR.

Thanks, T.

I couldn’t have done this alone.

None of us can, eh.

It’s always love and connection that saves us in the end.

Fleur Wickes 10/05/2018 Fleur Wickes 10/05/2018

Sleep well, I am still here.

Mother's Day is approaching. Fast. Advertisements left right and centre telling me I should buy my mother a present to show her how much I care. Thing is, she's not here.

Mother's Day is approaching. Fast. Advertisements left right and centre telling me I should buy my mother a present to show her how much I care. Thing is, I can't. Because she's not here.

I don't believe much in Mother's Day but every year I took a deep breath and wished my Mum well, because the acknowledgement mattered to her. This year, I can't text her in the morning, or sigh as I drive over to Palmy yet again, gritting my teeth about buying into this transparently commercial invention. She's dead and all the flowers and cheesy Mother's Day cards in the world won't bring her back.

It feels painful, to see all these bloody adverts. Continuous small pricks in my sensitive skin.

I'm genuinely happy for everyone who's got their mum around and can celebrate with her. Bathe in the love! Which is why I'm posting this today, and not on Saturday. I don't wanna get in the way of all that good cheer.

But I know there are also plenty of us without our mums. Or without whoever it is that we've lost.

It's eight months and I still cry sometimes. I still miss her so very much. I don't cry every night though, and that's a win. Quite often now there are hours in my day of feeling happy, and for that I'm grateful. In the early days I didn't think happiness was possible. In fact I remember someone I went on a date with asking me if I was happy, and I started crying right there and then in the restaurant, because happiness seemed such an abstract and distant idea. I didn't get a second date. Lol. But time and distance does wonders and I'm not so numb now. I laugh with my mates, and go to the movies and am getting on with my work and I like that.

But this fcking Mother's Day advertising is making the grief feel real fresh, like how it was when I made this artwork, sleep well I am still here x , for an exhibition I had earlier this year, A private view.

Installation view of the bedroom of A private view, with sleep well I'm still here, x on the wall above the bed. — Installation view of the bedroom of *A private view*, with *sleep well I'm still here, x* on the wall above the bed.

I make artwork for all sorts of reasons. This one was made to give me comfort.

Because I desperately needed her, needed to feel her with me.

And those words, sleep well I am still here, are exactly what she'd text me, if she could.

The fine patterns on the artwork came from a cross-stitch pattern and my great-grandmother and Nana did cross-stitch and I thought, I'll put them in the artwork too, and then I'll have three generations of women with me as I sleep.

The thing is, it really did give me comfort. I'd walk into my bedroom during the month of the show and see the artwork, and feel her with me. I'd lay down exhausted in my bed, tears rolling down my cheeks, and I'd feel like she was saying sleep well, I'm still here to me and it'd calm me down and make me feel like everything would be okay. As she always said, sleep is a great healer. Go to sleep and in the morning, things will feel better, she'd always say. And she was right.

We all do what it takes during difficult times to get us through.

The making of this artwork, and having it beside me these few months, has been a big part of what got me through these last months. Strike that tense. What gets me through.

Since the show I've moved rooms but I took the artwork with me. It's not hung yet. It sits beside my bed, leaned up against the brown paper and just underneath the random white stripe I painted. I look at it as I go to bed and as I wake. On the days [like today] where all I want to do is to curl up and stay in bed and not face anything or anyone, knowing she's with me helps me find the strength to get up and have a shower and keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I feel so fortunate to have had her as a mother. To her near me now. To feel her strongly still.

I talked to her in the bath for an hour and a half the other night. I don't know whether she was listening... she was probably off in some damn fine cafe way up there, talking to someone she hardly knows, finding out all the details of their life, just like she always did. Regardless, I told her all my worries, all my ideas for the future. Asked her advice. Went to bed, looked at the artwork, drifted to sleep imagining her stroking my hair like when I was a child. It was lovely.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not sad every moment. Life is good. I have work I love. I have friends and family and my son who I love strongly madly and deeply. I have Seth, my old faithful mate. I live in a lovely house, in a lovely town. My body is healthy, my brain is sharp and I'm still pretty good at telling funny stories and being a dick and making people laugh, when I'm in the mood.

The fact I'm grieving doesn't make life less good.

Grief is part of life. Light and shadow all at once, mofos. As Neil Finn said, four seasons in one day.

The other day, I made another version of the artwork. A simpler plainer bolder one.

Sleep well I am still here, studioprint. 2018

I made it because a woman came to the show and didn't have it in her budget to buy the limited-edition exhibition print asked if I'd make a studioprint version. She was a lovely woman and so I said yes. I wanted her to feel the person who was gone from her was still there with her. I wanted her to have comfort, too.

Mum. You're always with me. Always will be.

I miss you like crazy but I'm glad you're not in pain.

Your strength and courage and love are my scaffold.

Thank you for staying by my side.

Fleur Wickes 08/05/2018 Fleur Wickes 08/05/2018

Doodles

Today has been a very long one.

Orders to the lab. Answering emails. Making decisions. Making plans for exhibitions. Making progress on work in progress. Paying bills. Coffee with a friend. Working out. Making dinner. Cleaning the sink. Not doing the dishes and feeling guilty but deciding writing’s more important than dishes. That’s how my life rolls. You know how it is.

Today has been a very long one.

In the middle of this busy busy day, I made some time to do a doodle.

Do you know how marvellous it felt to have that stick in my hand, and draw that wobbly gold line? It was freedom. It was making a mark without intent. For no reason except I wanted to, and if felt good to me.

Whether or not the doodle becomes the basis for any artwork is irrelevant. What matters is that I enjoyed it. Scrap that. I delighted in making those marks. Delight is a very special thing to feel.

Usually delight is left to children. Us grownups have apparently got more important things to do than explore what delights them. What a miserable way to live.

I make time for delight.

Even if it’s only five minutes.

That five minutes can carry me through a day otherwise consisting of stress and worry and boredom and making other people happy.

Let’s hear it for delight.

And for doodles.

Doodles rule.

Fleur Wickes 08/05/2018 Fleur Wickes 08/05/2018

Comfortable in my skin

I was telling someone at training yesterday how I like to look in the mirror as I train. Two reasons. One is because I like to see if I’m doing the movements right. Second reason is because I think I look real good. Not joking. I enjoy seeing my solid healthy body move. My face contort and sweat. I have been working for about five years to get as fit as I am now. It’s never been about achieving a certain weight or body shape. I couldn’t give two flying fks what the scales say.

These days I feel strong and solid and, thanks to my continued and consistent effort at the marvellous environment that is Iron Alley, my body also looks in the best shape it’s been since I was about twenty.

How can I not feel fortunate to have a body which is healthy and can move?

How can I not look at my face, with it’s feelings and years written all over it, and feel pleased?

Yeah mate, I’ve got scars on my face and on my body and kinda flat nose and, these days, wrinkles. So what? Yeah I’ve got a wobbly tummy. So what? I like myself this way.

I genuinely like the way I look and most importantly, I like the way I feel.

Strong.
Clear.

I am comfortable, finally, in my own skin.

Jesus christ it feels good.

[Thanks so much Iron Alley for making such beautiful atmosphere, and for making this woman who couldn’t do one sit-up unassisted and had never done any sport or real movement with her body believe that she could. I can’t quite explain how much this journey has meant to me./]

Word/

feeling/

entry/

drawing.

Every day,

2025.