At this week's Summer School there are about 150 students, the
majority well-heeled and over 50, doing oil painting,
jewellery-making, stained glass, print-making, textiles and
watercolours. The atmosphere is friendly and it's easy to meet
people but this is no Saga
holiday with added arts and craft. There are no late-night drinking
sessions in the bar. The amateur artists of middle-England appear
to be a focussed bunch, intent on making the most of their time
here.
Whereas the print-makers and stained glass students share a
large, messy workroom, we sculptors are tucked away in a small but
pleasant studio. Yesterday, we packed clay roughly onto the
armature. Today, we will begin to shape and mould the piece. The
atmosphere is relaxed but quiet as we add clay then carve it away,
add more clay and carve it away again. Thus we continue hoping to
fashion from this base substance muscle and flesh, even hair.
It surprises me that so much concentration is involved but,
instead of tension, it induces that "good tired" feeling at the end
of the day. We also seem to have entered something of a time warp
as no sooner do we begin than it's time for coffee, then lunch. We
are absorbed, utterly. The rhythm of the work is broken by the
occasional sharing of tips and techniques but otherwise a contented
silence settles upon the group. And it is in this semi-meditative
state that we continue from day to day. There are frustrations and
eureka moments but the joy of clay is that it can be reworked again
and again. There's no such thing as a total disaster, only an
opportunity to learn.
As the week goes on, our small team bonds and each student
divulges more of their personal story. In the studio, the tutor
talks about the nature of creativity and, as we temporarily park
our British reserve, the discussions go deeper. We can hear
laughter and chatter coming from other groups nearby but, though we
have plenty of fun, this feels like a precious opportunity so
mostly we just crack on. It occurs to me that this is the first
time for many years that I have done something that is just for me
and gradually feelings of guilty self-indulgence are replaced by a
kind of quiet euphoria.
