Hello, in response to Veronica’s e-mail I am writing a little about myself and also my connection to Studio 36. I was first introduced to Veronica by our good friends Mary and Steve Bramble. I remember very clearly meeting Veronica and entering Studio 36 for the first time. I was stopped in my tracks by the energy, vibrancy, colour and fun and felt the excitement of a child when you need to explore.
I am not an artistic person but have always related to colour both visually and internally. I am a yogi and I first experienced yoga in the 1960’s as the west began to embrace it. As a Liverpool lass and huge fan of the Beatles, who raised the profile of meditation and eastern philosophy, I became curious to find out more. I have studied with many yoga teachers over the years, even in India. I finally trained as a Sivananda Yoga teacher in the Austrian mountains later in life. I went on to enjoy teaching yoga in a variety of settings. including residential care homes and supporting NHS carers.
Perhaps I need to View Studio 36 with a different perspective as a Yogi, standing on my head!
It was very kind of you to let me play the piano when I last visited Studio 36, but I guess in the light of the current situation, I may have to simply stand two metres from the door and attempt to sing the tune of Mozart’s Alla Turca, while dressed as a brent goose. It was most enjoyable to walk around the studio during Art Week Exeter and provided an interesting and compelling window into the visions of the various contributors. If there’s anything you need, let me know and I’ll see what I can do. I’m now off to buy all the toilet rolls in the city, so that I can make a ten foot papier mache sculpture of Zeus.
Music has always been an intermittent part of my life, whether it be songwriting or creating instrumental compositions. I don’t consider myself much of an expert, but sometimes on a day off, I’ll record a few tracks and then listen to them in the evening with a glass of Shiraz. I think the current science fiction influenced global situation is an ideal time to create one’s own works as historically it has been the role of culture to provide a mirror or response to external circumstances, such as was the case with the emergence of Dadaism during the First World War.
Writer, mother, wife, daughter, step-daughter, sister, half-sister, step-sister, aunt, cousin, niece, great-niece, granddaughter, adult, child, walker, naturalist, singer, gardener, reader, rider, sailor, surfer, anxious, introvert, extrovert, loud, quiet, obsessive, music, poetry, art, animals, wild, domestic, trees, woods, moorland, beaches, hills… I need space and quiet to breathe.
Vanessa de Haan
About Vanessa de Haan
I’m a historical fiction author as well as a freelance journalist, proofreader and editor. My first novel (The Restless Sea, HarperCollins) is about the Arctic convoys, and was inspired by family stories, as well as interviews with second world war veterans around Devon and beyond. I’m currently working on my second novel, set on the borders of Devon and Somerset after the first world war. When I write, I see the events unfolding in my mind, a bit like watching a film, so art, photography and moving pictures are very much involved in my writing process.
You can find me on Facebook and Twitter (@vzdehaan) and Instagram @vanessadehaanauthor
I liked your gallery because of its playful, (can I say?) almost anarchic, style. I found it very encouraging to pick up the message that art/making doesn’t have to be perfect; art belongs to everyone. I’m not suggesting that your work is badly made only that pursuit of technical perfection isn’t allowed to kill off the creative spark.
My thoughts are travelling down Memory Lane. This time last year my daughter and I travelled to America to visit friends in California.
Our departure would have been 14 April.
We arrived in Las Vegas and drove to Twentynine Palms, the Mojave Desert.
It’s the time of year when spring flowers bloom all over the world, but I never imagined in the desert where the sand is white, the air warm, and the ground dry.
Their elegance, beauty and bright colours stretch over the white California desert sand and draws you near to stand and stare.
The sun beats down relentlessly from sunrise to sunset
And in all their glory they look up and smile
I only had a small notebook and biro and couldn’t resist a little sketch.
“I am an artist and stained glass designer; a graduate of the Royal College of Art who has had a long career as a university lecturer in Fine Art and Media Arts. In my visual artwork, whatever the medium or form it takes, there is an element of storytelling. I like to think things through as stories because in stories we can juxtapose fact with conjecture, interpretion with exaggeration, and subjectively remember the traces left by people, events and ideas. My aim has always been to make images that are visually stimulating, and to intrigue and amuse the viewer by encouraging the possibilities of multiple and alternative interpretations.”
The Poet didn’t feel himself that morning. That is not to say that he didn’t know who he was, but he had never experienced exactly or for that matter, even vaguely, such an acute sense of wrongness. “Is it ideological?”, he questioned himself.
He shuffled his fingers through his translation of LesPenseesIntimes of Torben Myercough and still felt attached to every word, bar some that only Will Self would recognise. “And that reminds me”, he thought. “Where is The Book of Dave,? I was reading the paperback only last night?
One by one he examined the titles:of his boxsets. True he hadn’t managed to finish Engrenages Series 1-6. However, he remembered the addictive pleasure of ordering every one.
Nothing in the room seemed out of place, although on the pine veneer Ikea shelves that covered the entirety of one wall there were gaps that he hadn’t noticed before.
Breakfast was a dull affair. Had his Waitrose ordering routine misfired? Where was the freshly squeezed never from concentrate juice and, worse still, he had run out of marmalade. The jar was entirely empty, and clean as new. although inexplicably the tangy smell of its late contents hung in the air..
Getting dressed he sorted through his T-shirts. Something to cheer me up he thought , but none of the colours matched this ambition. Surely I have something really bright, more positive to wear, something that symbolises energy and vitality.”
“I cannot find anything wrong with you.” said the Doctor. “Certainly nothing physical. Of course we could organise a series of tests. Are you eating as normal?” The poet didn’t mention the lack of marmalade for his breakfast toast.
“You really are blue”, he whispered to himself as he turned the key in the latch, “Maybe it’s politics, maybe? Maybe not?”
But as a poet he felt obliged to articulate his feelings. But nothing seemed to rhyme.
“What is this poem about?”, he asked himself.
Upon what malady does my position hinge How can I encompass such sour challenge For now or future accept time so strange Deduce not fear of where my feelings range And in my way collect all these to expunge To resolve that my future must be more orange.
