Prickly
Sleepy eyed albino hedgehogs equipped with pocket watches and bells
A friend suggested I check out the work of textile artist, Yorkshireman Mister Finch. The fruit of two years' work, he has published a book to accompany his major exhibition which opened yesterday. There was a book signing event today at YSP and, intrigued by this enigmatic character, it was the perfect opportunity for another creative top up.
When I arrived at the Visitor Centre just before the signing began, the queue was already snaking out beyond the doors. In true un-British style I went on my meander. It was a belter of a day and I quenched my thirst to be beside water as I took yet another unfamiliar route through dappled woodland.
Obelisk
Upper lake
Tree
Light
Appeased, I returned a couple of hours later and headed straight upstairs to view Mister's work. I wasn't disappointed as I admired his pungent squishy toadstools adorning the ascending staircase. I was whirled into a pinch-me wildlife wonderland. I felt privileged at seeing his deliciously intricate and almost over-imaginative work so close. He has taken upcycling to an exquisite level. I feasted on the minute details of the finery of his work and was astonished at how he has injected each character with a vivid personality. I loved the plush thuggishness of his soft moles. His hedgehogs were delicately spiky, his rats amusingly benevolent. I couldn't get enough of his giant buttermotherfly with it's twirly tongue alighted beside an arachnid that could've played an extra in an Alien movie if it didn't look so, well, cute. A skilled anthropomorphist, I can easily imagine Finch engaging in lengthy conversations with his individually christened, lovingly crafted intricate creations in a candle lit studio in the eaves of an antique filled Victorian house. I'm sure nothing could be further from the truth but allow me to indulge.
Fantastical
Curious cabinet of motley mothly delights
I looked down at the dwindling queue and saw my opportunity to meet the man behind the dreamlike creatures. I observed patiently while he charmed his audience with his warmly charismatic easy personality. Bearded and dressed in a white shirt, an inappropriately hot looking wool waistcoat, snappy tan leather shoes and with a lively twinkle in his eye, he was a genuine gentleman and gratifyingly quirky. I couldn't help but be fixated by his finger candy - a topless thimble. How very apt! He told me the story behind it. What a warm open gentle soul with a mischievously dry sense of humour and devoid of artificial airs and graces. In my brief research I noted he was a cat lover so I knew he couldn't be bad and we would at least have something to talk about, but we didn't dwell on the subject and I sensed he'd been asked about felines before. I told him I noticed all but one of his pieces had been sold (I wish I'd written a wish post) and he was modest in his pleasure. Although he had a brace of vigilant attendants, I sensed he didn't really need them. I asked if he wouldn't mind signing a card for my friend and he also patiently signed one of his beautiful flyer posters for me (sorry K if you're reading this, with hindsight I should've gone with his flyer suggestion...) As I spelt out my name I told him I was Welsh and went on to say I was a musician too. In my playful mood I asked him to guess which instrument. Groan. No wonder the poor bloke struggled to write my name with my barrage of chatter. Flute? *?!?* Ummm, triangle? *?!?!!* Ummmmmmm, guitar? *?!?!?!!!**** Somewhat disappointed at his admission of defeat, I gave my childish game away. I took my leave of this unique authentic character with a heartily firm handshake. Afterwards I felt a strange sense of being okay with being how I am, being quirky, being me.
Long eared rabbits
or are they hares? With hatpin joints
Pond
Formal gardens, with waterlilies, moorhens and chicks
