Chi
Enveloping an abandoned stone house nestled under a cliff beside the sea and used once by tin miners to store explosives, allowed me to reflect upon the perpetual principles of impermanence, repair, and renewal. Using vivid blue fishing net and rope to cover its sides and to weave together the precarious slate pieces of its broken roof, I found myself thinking of motherhood. Memories came to me of my mother and my grandmother: clever, patient, soothing and indispensable. As I adjusted to the elemental nature of my work I found that I became a mother bird, patiently and constantly returning to weave her fragile nest; each day slowly expanding and tightening my work; repairing it when the sea and wind unraveled it. My rhythm was the moon’s dance. I rose when the tide went down, often encountering on the stony beach a fisherman who lived according to the same ancient clock that I did now. I worked during low tide, weaving and clambering about the structure until the cold salt water had swirled up to cover the rocks on which the old Cornish house sat. The sea, like a true artist, with his unforgiving liquid hands rose up and undid large parts of my work. Once it had finished pulling apart the man-made rope, mixing shades of blue within its swirling depths, I could begin again on a fresh canvas. Nothing survived but the essence, and the mother bird, returning like the tide to continue her work.