Mosaic

‘I just met a vampire,’ I said.

Really?’ said Matt. ‘Where?’

‘Outside. I was putting out the bins, and there he or she was. Just by the church.’

‘What did you say?’ asked Matt.

‘I said hello. And the vampire said “Hello” back, in rather a scared voice. I went to wheel out another bin, and it had crossed the road towards me, and it said, “Is that your house?  It’s beautiful.” And I said, “Oh thank you.” ‘

‘I’ve seen vampires in the village,’ said Matt. ‘They are rather fat, and one of them rides a bicycle.’

‘Oh no, this one was thin. Not fat at all. I’m not sure if it was a girl or a boy.’

We are in the studio. It’s late at night, and it’s dark, but inside it’s brightly illuminated. Matt is painting. Rows of coloured shapes, some muted, some bright, fill the room.  The studio windows overlook a graveyard. The gravestones have been re-laid in rows, making it easier to mow the grass. The church is medieval, made from flint and stone. Its tower is buttressed, and mosaics in flint and stone run all the way to the top, but yew trees mask the view.

There is a knock at the studio door. ‘I bet that’s the vampire,’ I say. I can’t see into the darkness.  I struggle with 300-year old locks and bars, and finally open up. The vampire says ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but could you call Westholme for me?’

‘Of course, I say.’

‘I got into difficulty, so I ran away. And they’ll be looking for me.’

‘Come in. Don’t worry. I’ll phone whoever you like. But you’ll have to help me. I don’t know what Westholme is.’

‘It’s a home. I’m a 52-weeker, but I got into difficulty today and ran away. They will be wondering where I am. They might have called the police.’

‘Would you like me to take you back?’

‘We are not allowed to get into cars with strangers. I’m sorry.’

‘Of course. Come in. I’ll phone right away.’

‘I’ll get you a chair’ says Matt.

‘Do you know the number?’ I ask.

‘I’m afraid not’ says the vampire.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll look it up on the Internet. What’s your name?’

‘Ellen’ says the vampire.

‘I’m afraid nobody is answering’ I say.

‘What a beautiful room’ says Ellen.

‘We’re artists. It’s a studio’ Matt says.

‘What happened to make you run away?’ I ask.

Ellen twists and turns in her chair. ‘I got into difficulty.’  She plays with her sleeve. She looks at Matt. She looks at me. ‘I don’t know how to say this.  I’m a self-harmer, you see. I’m sorry.’ She pulls up the plain grey sleeve of her hoodie. Her arm is raw and bloody with columns of slashes.

‘Do you think it might be a good idea to have a wash?’ I say.

‘Yes’ says Ellen.

‘Come with me.’

I walk her through the house to the bathroom. It is a dark labyrinth. I trip over a bucket of water in the hall – settling from some mosaic fixing earlier in the day. I hope she is not afraid. I want to put my arm round her but I think better of it.

‘Wrap this clean towel around your arm. I think I’d better drive you back after all, don’t you?’

‘My Mum and Dad don’t want anything to do with me any more. They’ve given up on me,’ says Ellen in the car.

‘My husband was brought up in a home’ I say.

‘Did it work out for him?’ she asks.

‘I think it did.’

We approach the bars and gates.

‘You are pretty, you know.’ says Ellen.

‘How kind of you to say so’ I reply.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: artists studio at night > Emma Biggs > mosaic artist > mosaic courses
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Matt and I are spending the morning in court. He did not drive to the hearing. He has been rehearsing what it might be like not to drive. ‘Where is the magistrates court?’ we ask a young woman. ‘It’s on the other side of town. Take the ring road past the docks.  You can’t miss it.’

Perhaps the young man sitting on the bench next to me in the waiting hall outside Court Two has come straight from his yacht. He is tall and conventionally handsome. He wears canvas deck shoes, and his beige knee-length cotton shorts are embroidered with tiny anchors. ‘Est’d MCMLXXXVI’ reads the tattoo on his wrist.

While Matt is lost in his book: ‘High Price, Art Between Celebrity and the Market’ by Isabelle Graw, I examine the co-offenders. A red headed woman with a tongue ring sits with a skinny young guy with a crew cut and lines shaved in his eyebrows. Although he has ‘Mathias’ densely tattooed up his arm in brilliant colours, the redhead calls him Sean. She has Renaissance grotesques tattooed behind her ears. They are not appearing in court, they are waiting for someone who is. ‘She’s gotta be here somewhere’ the redhead says. ‘Yeah’ he agrees.

‘John Muffett to Court One’ announces the loud speaker.

‘Hello Sean’ says a fat girl, walking down the hall.

‘Hello.’ Sean looks sheepish.  Once she has passed, he whispers in the redhead’s ear. They snigger and glance at her conspiratorially.

‘I expect the hold up is due to the backlog from the strike yesterday’ a woman behind me booms.

‘Could be’ says her partner.

‘Hello Dad’ says a wizened hardnut opposite us into her phone. She has a menacing, depressed air, in spite of the love hearts tattooed up the back of her neck. ‘Mum says can you let Patchy out?’ she says flatly. No one is less likely to be tricked by false hope than me, her voice tells us.

‘How do you address a magistrate?’ booms the woman behind us.

‘Your majesty’ says her partner.

‘I’m not staying, I’m going back to the caravan’ says the depressed woman, putting the phone back in her denim jacket.

‘Shireen rang last week’ says her mother, a big woman sitting next to her. ‘She was calling from the Hook of Holland. “I’m coming over” she said. “Don’t count on me, I haven’t got the room” I said to her, “not with those three children.” I never heard from her after that. I don’t know how she’s got the money.’

‘She probably hasn’t’ says her daughter.   ‘I expect she thought you’d pay for her.’

‘She can think again on that front’ says Mum.‘ ‘Not after last time.’

The crowd behind us grows increasingly nervous. They grate our nerves too with their enormous gales of false laughter.  Their conversations get louder and louder.

‘Trevor Beckworth to Court One’ says the tannoy.

‘I want to move away from the shouting’ Matt says.

‘Darren Button to Court Three.’

We’ve been here for five and a half hours. The man next to me now is not a shouter. He’s bright and amusing, and he has barbed wire tattooed up his arm.  He’s off to Hamburg tomorrow to see the bout between David Haye and Wladimir Klitschko.

‘The last time I was here,’ he says. ‘I was laying the carpet tiles.’

‘Really?’ I say.

‘Yeah, they’re very strict. You can’t do anything when they’re in session. You have to charge more because of it.  A lot of the time you can’t work at all.’

Jerking his head he indicates a particular screamer at the back of the hall. ‘I’ve moved away from her once already’ he says, ‘There are two types of people here. The petty offenders and the ones the rest of us are paying for.’

‘I’m in flooring too.’ I say.

‘Matthew Collings to Court Two’ says the tannoy.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: 'HIgh Price Between Art and Celebrity' > do not speed > Emma Biggs mosaic artist > Isabelle Graw > Matthew Collings spends day in court > mosaic artist > Mosaic artist spends day in court > mosaicist meets tiler > obey traffic laws > what happens when you are flashed by a speed camera.
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Today I drew up more templates for the New York job. Extracting dimensions from the architect is like getting blood from a stone. I’ve asked ten or eleven times. Sometimes he generously sends me AutoCAD drawings, but I don’t have the ACAD programme, so I can’t read them. My assistant Monica worked in an architect’s office. She kindly agrees to look at them when she gets home, but her version of AutoCAD is old and incompatible. I e-mail the designer in Paris. He e-mails the architect in New York. The architect e-mails me in London. I explain the problem and he sends me PDFs with no dimensions at an indecipherable scale. And round we go again. So now, the floors are complete, and I have everything bar the dimensions of one wall. This evening I finally received the drawings from the stone supplier in Italy. AutoCAD drawings with no dimensions.

‘I found this when I was making alterations to our house’ said someone in our village recently, showing me a carved wooden sheaf of corn. ‘They used to build them into the walls, as a hidden symbol of fertility and plenty. I thought about selling it, because it’s really old, but I worried that if it left the cottage maybe things would start going wrong.’

He’s been advising us about the studio floor. We’ve made various transformations and the walls are now insulated, although we can’t afford to do the floors yet, and the wind whistles up between the boards. We’re discussing what to do now. ‘Look at these holes here’ he said. ‘They’ve been covered with the bottom of old cans, and secured with a ring of nails. Instead of replacing floorboards with holes in them, we could patch them with decorative circles of copper, to match. What do you think?’

‘Genius’ I said. This was where hats and clothes were made when the house was still a grocer and a drapers shop. Matt and I went up and inspected the floor again later, and found various holes had been covered with hob nails – the kind people used to wear on their boots. I like that technology.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: art mosaic > Emma Biggs > good solutions to problem floors > mosaic artist > superstitions in East Anglia > the problems with new technology > very good mosaics
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‘So when the bombers fly overhead, they use your house as target practice for a virtual bombing raid’ my neighbour said to me yesterday.

‘What? No! Never!’ I said, as I know when my leg is being pulled.

‘Yeah, really. I’m not kidding! Both the Americans and the Brits use the church as a target for virtual bomb drops. I’ve had it confirmed on numerous occasions’ he said.

‘Yes, he has. Seriously’ said his partner. ‘Except the US bombers target it from a much greater height than the Brits do.’

‘Good Lord. I’ve moved out of London to the most dangerous place in the UK.’

‘Oh you’re wrong there’ he said. ‘It’s the safest. ‘We’re encircled by the military.’

‘Well precisely’ I said. ‘Not only is my house regularly virtually bombed, but the whole area must be at the epicentre of international virtual attacks.’

‘Don’t worry about it. There are all sorts of systems designed to ensure this area’s operational ability. Nowhere in the country could be safer.’

I remembered his words today. I spent the afternoon moving plants around my tiny garden. It was time to go and collect the eryngiums I’d reserved, I thought. Driving home through the lanes I saw dead crows hanging from sticks in fields of barley. They dangled there, wings outstretched — an ominous warning. No aerial bombardment for them anymore.

Photograph: Evelyn Simak [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: aerial bombardment > art mosaics > dead crow > Emma Biggs > farming practices in East Anglia > mosaic artist
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It is cold. We are expecting snow. I am on my way to London, to set out some work with Sandra, my assistant. I must decide how we will lay the next stage of our mosaic panels.

The car windows are rimed with ice. We drive to the station. The air is clear and crisp. As the car reaches the top of a hill we look out over the Fens.  Clouds of smoke and steam rise from a distant sugar refinery. The refinery runs constantly at this time of year, glowing fiery orange on the horizon by night. Heavy open trucks of beet slow down our trip to the station, from dawn until long past dusk. ‘Are the deliveries timetabled, so the beet doesn’t arrive all at the same time?’ I wonder.

I’m on the train. We run alongside the Great Ouse Relief Channel. Sometimes the river flows higher than the surrounding fields. The earth is purple-black. There is a patch of striking blue — a field of onions. Forty white swans stand in a black field, long necks extended, beaks turned to the sky. Perhaps they are whooper swans, calling to out to fellow migrants, newly arrived from Iceland.

A fellow traveller interrupts my sublime reflections.

‘I’ve ordered the meat, and I’ve got a few little nibbles sorted out. Natasha has taken up street dancing. She does hip-hop and rap and God knows what else. She loves it. But she has other interests. She cooks for the family. She made macaroni cheese on Thursday. I think I might buy her a food processor for Christmas. I told Susan and she said “I haven’t got one”. “And you can’t use this one” I said. “It’s for Natasha.” I think it is quite an unusual gift for a child of her age, but she’s interested. I said “Do be prepared to go to Waitrose on Boxing Day, Susan.” Next year it’ll be a horse for Natasha, of course.’

Natasha is a Russian name. Appropriate round here. Some of our local signs are in Russian.

I am working on a series of panels that are both signs and pictures. They must have a visual similarity, as they are on the same site. I’d drawn up three of the four designs for the panels –  then I broke my wrist.  I was unable to put enough pressure on a pencil to continue. The only thing I could hold was a pair of scissors, so I rethought the designs as collages. This starting point has produced a different kind of design — exciting, but difficult.

‘Then we had to call the vet’ says my fellow passenger.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: mosaic artist > mosaic outside > mosaic panels > sugar beet refinery > The Fens > whooper swans
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Matt and I were on our way to the shops when we saw what we thought was a plastic barn owl sitting on the village sign. We stared at it and smiled. Amusement turned to amazement as the bird blinked, turned its head, and stared back.

‘Did you see that?’ Matt said.

‘Yes. Wow!’

We were a mile further down the lane when a white ghostly spectre swooped over us.

‘Was that another one?’ he asked.

It was.

‘I never want to get out of the car in this place’ Matt said, as we arrived at our destination. ‘The countryside is lovely, but there’s an air of menacing depression in this town.’

My new friend told me when she first moved up here, the local shop was called ‘The Pioneer Stores.’ ‘We’re pioneers’ I thought.

As we drove home, skeins of geese flew over, honking.  We stopped the car to pick some berries, to put in the room where our family, who were up from London, was staying.

‘Listen’ I said. The sound was eerie, and beautiful. A group of greylags and Egyptian geese landed in the field beside us. They began foraging. A flock of starlings crossed high, off to their evening roosts.

It was late. The girls went upstairs.

‘We’d better go to bed’ they said ‘if we’re getting up at 6 in the morning. It’s a long drive back.’

‘OK then. Sure. Good night’ we said. ‘Sleep tight.’

‘I’ve got a surprise’, I told Matt. ‘Come into the courtyard and I’ll show you.’

‘I’m too cold. It’s frosty out there.’

‘No, come outside. You’ll be glad!’ I insisted.

‘Oh, OK’,  he agreed, reluctantly.

I pointed my phone at the sky. ‘Pegasus’ it said. An image of the constellation appeared.

‘Look, it’s Pegasus.’ I said. ‘And that’s Neptune.’ As I circled across the sky, constellation after constellation was mapped out on the screen. ‘You can see which star is which, and planets, and even satellites!’

‘Wow’ said Matt. ‘That’s great. I want that.’

‘It has to know your location in order to work.’

‘Yeah?’

‘And then the Man will know where you are.’ I said, thinking of the CIA, surveillance, the sixties,  and the anti-establishment values expressed by Jefferson Starship on ‘Blows Against the Empire’.

‘Yeah’ said Matt. ‘Bummer.’

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: Mosaic artist slightly paranoid > Mosaic artist spots an owl > Mosaicist goes shopping
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When we first moved in to our huge and beautiful studio in the Holloway Road, we had five thousand square feet of echoing empty space. It was a big contrast to life before the studio, and it took a while to feel comfortable there. I’d had so many people and so much mosaic squeezed into the house. When you opened my front door, wooden orange crates full of tiles barred your entrance. In the sitting room, a team of people made tables for the Conran Shop. Upstairs, what had once been a bedroom was a busy workshop, full of tesserae and mosaicists at work. There was not a millimetre of free space. Every corner was jammed with supplies, adhesives, sacks of marble. The house was full of children, workers, and odd Holloway characters – the homeless kindly Scot who brought free stale bagels from the ‘Manhattan Bagel Bakery’ for the children or Yvonne, the elderly recycling nut, who brought broken objects from across the whole of London to deposit at our door.

Yvonne gave my boys dog-eared comics for which they were politely grateful. This was strategically sensible, as she could be aggressive. In return I gave her tea and cake. She regularly visited on a Saturday afternoon – an otherwise treasured moment of free time. I wanted to teach the children love, charity and kindness to all humankind, but after a couple of years of her fluctuating temper and her less than useful gifts, we started to pretend to be out when she rang.

We had five years of spacious existence in the studio, until our tranquility was broken by the arrival of a new landlord. He moved into the formerly empty, huge and echoing ex-Eghoyan Pitta Bread Bakery next door. He upped the rent, and we lost the ground floor of our building to a metal workshop. We paid rather more money for a space two thousand square feet smaller.

For the next fifteen years, we had a yearly event at which we socialised with the landlord – the yard barbecue. The boys he employed would roll out oil drums and the yard would fill with the characteristic Holloway smell of a charcoal grill. At five o’clock or so, we would go down and share beers and sausages with the guys, and make small talk with the landlord.

‘How is business?’ he would enquire – a question to which my answers were always guarded.

‘You would make more profit if you employed Eastern Europeans’ he advised ‘You can pay them next to nothing.’ ‘Hmm’ I replied.

Other than the whiff of charcoal from the local kebab shops, the strongest smells we were likely to encounter daily were those of the local foxes, or the acrid, rather foxy odour of an adhesive our new landlord used in order to stick wooden veneer to a stable blockboard base — critical to the production process of his expensive laminated floors.

The village in which I now live has a richer vocabulary of odours.  Onions were being harvested nearby, I detected when I hung out the washing this morning. Houses fringe the high street, but their gardens lead directly out onto the fields, so you know at close quarters when the farmer is muck-spreading, as he was this afternoon. At four o’clock, a tanker rumbled up the road, and the sound of pumping began, accompanied by a highly pungent odour. Our neighbours were emptying their septic tank.

But if the village is rural, it is not sleepy. It is industrious and industrial. The farmers are constantly hard at work. There are food-processing factories nearby, for Quorn and animal feed, and there is a sugar refinery too. It is not the parochial countryside. Our nearest town has many specialist shops aimed at a population wider than the locals. I was looking in the window of one of these yesterday — the ‘Eastern European Stores’. A notice caught my eye. ‘Wanted’, it read:

‘200 People:

Factory Operatives

Field Workers,

Fork Lift Drivers.’

We are all global migrants now.

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‘You ought not to live on headache tablets’ one of my friends advises Matt. ‘They are really bad for you. It’s well known.’ She changes tack. ‘You’ve been in London all week then?’ she asks.

‘Yes, I’ve been in the edit. Em’s been in Norfolk on her own.’

‘So what’s it like living in the country?’ another friend politely enquires.

‘Great. Mostly I’ve just been unpacking boxes, but I did find a fantastic church.’

‘Yes Em, tell them about it’ Matt says enthusiastically. ‘It’s pre-Conquest’ he explains.

‘Yes, with a thatched roof and a round tower. It’s on the outskirts of a neighbouring village, with an unusual circular graveyard. Although most of the church dates from 900, part of the tower is from the 700s.’ My friends are glazing over. ‘In fact, the site may have been sacred for thousands of years.’

One of them has entirely disengaged. He is looking at the ceiling.

‘Roman pottery has been found there, but so have fragments of Bronze Age pots — a ceremonial beaker, of one of the Beaker people — and even Stone Age tools, from seven thousand years ago!’ I say triumphantly, but I have lost my audience.

‘How terrible, having to work so hard’ they sympathise with my husband.

‘I have found it hard too, doing everything on my own’ I interject.

‘But you haven’t started work yet’ they reason.

‘I haven’t been able to. I’m having to set up both the studio and the workshop. And it is a kind of work, you know, unpacking and sorting things out. On your own’ I point out.

‘I imagine,’ one of them addresses my husband ‘that moving house is psychically very troubling. It’s not just the work involved, it’s the disruption to a familiar routine. There is the constant challenge of not knowing where things are. Every act you normally make without giving it a second thought, from where your keys are, to what you have done with the tea bags, requires mental effort. It’s very draining. It may well be why you’re getting headaches.’ she posits, insightfully. ‘I know I experienced something similar when we moved. You may not be aware of it, but your unconscious is getting exhausted.’

Or at least that’s what I think she said, as by now, I had drifted off, wondering if the effect of the flints on the church tower might be useful. Perhaps the lively unpredictability of their grey and white would be something I could use in my forthcoming show in Holborn.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: ancient British church > circular churchyard > Emma Biggs > mosaic artist > moving house
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‘Did you sleep OK?’

‘Yes. How about you?’

‘More than five hours. It’s the most I’ve had for weeks.’

‘Me too.’

‘Do you think the bells are about to start ringing?’

‘Half past six? It might be a bit early. Apparently they always ring them on a Sunday though.’

‘It was funny when Fiona became a flesh-eating zombie last night wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you scared when she said she’d seen a ghost?’

‘Not really, no. I thought it was funny when you said “ Bella?” and she said “That’s not Bella”’

‘Are you frightened of living opposite the graveyard?’

‘No. Beautiful sculptural shapes and subtle colours.’

‘So are we painting this morning?’

‘If we don’t, the paintings won’t dry in time for the show.’

‘Tea?’

‘Coffee.’

We finally moved house this week. Matt has been unable to take part very much.  He has been caught in a vortex of anxious concentration, intensely absorbed by the edit of his forthcoming series. He heads off to London early in the morning, returning late at night. I taxi him carefully through the lanes at dawn, avoiding roe deer and muntjac  (car-destroying encounters with deer are commonplace round here) and attempting to avoid suicidal rabbits in the dark. We were halted near the station by a violent drunken brawl last night – the re-enactment of a eighteenth century engraving warning of the dangers of drink. Twenty people screamed and shoved their way into the high street A man ripped off his clothes in fury. Someone swung a belt around his head. The buckle was about to make contact. The women fought as viciously as the men.

‘Stop, stop, they might attack us’ said Matt.

‘Go, go! Quick or they might attack us’ said Matt.

‘Oh, God that was exciting!  I wish we had stayed longer to see what happened next’ he said.

During the day, the roads are choked with combine harvesters moving from field to field. I went to buy supplies for the new studio yesterday. As I left a huge combine rolled in to a nearby field of wheat, and by the time I came back the job was almost done. If only the studio could be made ready as quickly.

Dangerous revolution by Gillray in the 1990s , dangerous drink today.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: dangers of drink > Emma Biggs > Matthew Collings > mosaic artist > moving house
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‘Would you like a cup of tea Loric?’

‘His name’s Goris’ said Toby.

‘Goric?’

‘No. Goris.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry’ I said.

‘Don’t worry’ said Goris ‘Ive been called all sorts of things – Lawrie, Boris ….’

Goris, like Boris, I thought, I’ll remember that. ‘Well Goris, would you like a cup of tea?’

‘That’d be nice’ he said.

‘So what’s the theme for the festival?’ asked Toby.

‘Magic’ said Goris.

‘Magic?’ asked Ilaria ‘I’ll have to think about that.’

‘There are lots of ways of interpreting it’ said Toby.

‘It’s a great festival’ said Goris. ‘They always do something original. They construct weird spaces. Last time there was a bar underground. I was down there for ages. Only about 25 people could get in.’

‘Have you been to Ginglik in Shepherd’s Bush Green?’ asked Tim.

‘Been where?’ said George. ‘I love Shepherds Bush Green.’

‘Ginglik. In the middle of the Green. It’s a bar, underground. It’s small. In what used to be the old toilets. You should check it out.’

‘Interesting’ I said.

‘What did you do for the Summer Solstice?’ someone asked.

‘I’ve been to Stonehenge a few times’ said Goris ‘but I won’t go there again. There are too many crusties and too many people are off their face. Drugs have spoiled it. I wouldn’t like to be there with children.’

‘Have you got any?’ asked Sam.

‘No’ said Goris, ‘but I wouldn’t be there with them if I had. The best place to be for the Solstice is Latvia.’

‘Latvia? Are you Latvian?’ said George.

‘Yeah, from Riga’ said Goris.

‘My family’s from Latvia’ said George. ‘Or is it Estonia?’

‘Where is Latvia exactly?’ asked Sam.

‘On the Baltic Sea’ said Goris. ‘Finland is only 60 miles away. It’s next to Russia, Estonia, Belarus and Lithuania.’

‘What happens at the Solstice?’ asked Toby.

‘Paganism is still big in Latvia. It continued underground throughout the various occupations. And the whole country celebrates the Solstice. There’s dancing, and bonfires, and folk traditions. It’s called Jani. Everyone called Janis has to wear a special costume. The men wear wreaths made from oak leaves, and the women wear wreaths made of flowers. Even the animals are dressed up. There’s folk singing, music and jumping over the fire. There’s special cheese and beer.’

‘Is there anything apart from beer? I don’t really like beer’ said George.

‘Not really’ said Goris.

‘It sounds incredible’ I said. ‘I’m going next year.’

Image of Jani celebrations from the Turaida Museum Reserve, north of Riga.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: Emma Biggs > folk traditions in Latvia > Jani in Latvia > mosaic can be fun > mosaic classes
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