Mosaic

Sorry readers, please forgive my protracted silence.

For the past couple of months I have been getting ready to sell my house. At first there was a period of emotional adjustment and tidying up. It is not easy to make the daily work place of many adults seem sparklingly neat and minimal, and charmingly, rather than squalidly scruffy. This was followed by an intense search for somewhere else to live. It devoured days, which spilled into weeks. Finally, we put the house on the market.

I thought this was where real trauma would begin, fearing the narrowed eyed judgment of people I didn’t know, but in fact, everyone who looked seemed remarkably appreciative, and free from beady criticism. Matt has been away filming for the duration, but we’ve just accepted an offer, and thoroughly approve of our buyers. I wasn’t quite sure where we stood when one of them said ‘I think you like colour more than you like done-upness’. But when the other said ‘This is a really romantic house. It’s almost like an art gallery’,  affectionately patted a mosaic and continued ‘I do hope these are included in the sale’ I felt they were safe future caretakers of our lovely home.

So, what next? We have to move our library, studio, workshop and enough china to fill a barn. It’s hard to find the right place in London, so our solution has been to leave. We have found a lovely odd house –  part-cottage, part-mansion, part shop, with owls, and a barn built of chalk you can enter from one of the bedrooms. The house has three separate staircases and overlooks a church. There used to be a tunnel between church and house until a previous owner filled it in. He wanted to be sure the tunnel wouldn’t collapse beneath the weight of the steam racing cars he built in the shop .   We believe the bell ringing and low flying military jets will become so familiar we will no longer hear them.

The house is in an isolated village, surrounded by rushing brooks fringed with willows, geese grazing in the meadows, skylarks singing, and hares running.

This will be a new life. I will let you know how it goes. We leave in three months time. Plenty to do until then.

Photograph: Glenn Harvey

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs
11 Comments »

When I first met Matt, my lovely artist and art critic husband to be, I shyly confessed to being a birdwatcher. ‘I know it’s a bit strange and nerdy’ I said, ‘but I’ve liked it ever since I was a teenager.’

‘Don’t worry’ he said racking his brain for precedents of behaviour of this kind in the art world. ‘Waldemar Januszczak does it too.’ At the time I found this reassuring.

Last night poor Matt came home late from a film trip to Berlin. I have been ill, and I slept through the phone calls, the thunderous beatings on the door and the plaintive appeals for entry. He was forced to make an early morning trip to the co-op where my son lives to retrieve a key.

This morning I woke with a start.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Matt.

‘I’ll be all right if I know what the time is’ I said. ‘I have an important appointment. Please don’t let me be late’ I begged fate, thinking of the trip I had to make to a park in West London.

‘Did you look at that Hieronymus Bosch for me?’ Matt said.

‘You didn’t, did you?’ he speculated. Unfortunately he was right.

‘You’ve got to do it before you go.’

‘It’s about fertility’ I said, ‘they’re hatching, breaking out of eggs, or fruits. It’s teeming, fertile life.’

‘Ah, eggs!’ he said. ‘That’s significant. Bosch was interested in wildlife, and birds play a sinister role in this painting — particularly the owls.  Look at this one in Hell.  It’s about to eat a man.’

‘But that’s not an owl, it’s a nightjar. You can tell by the whiskers.’ I said,  thrilled to find a use for my insider knowledge. ‘Listen to this.’ I said, clicking a link on the RSPB site. ‘You can hear them churring.’

‘You can hear them doing what?’ he asked.

‘Ladies and gentlemen’ the tube announcement boomed, as I went into the Underground, ‘there is disruption to service on the Circle and District Line.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen?’ The announcers have become so formal lately.

When I emerged from the tube at 10.10 for my appointment with Ceri Levy, film-maker, musician, curator and all round Renaissance man, he was standing right there. I could tell he was about to look at his watch.

‘I’m so sorry!’ I said. ‘Did you get my message?’ We walked into the park.

‘This is the tree’ said Ceri.

Suddenly a man appeared. ‘Are zey zere?’ he asked. He was a tall sporty Eastern European gentleman in a skin-tight outfit. He was surrounded by dogs. I couldn’t tell if Ceri knew him or not.

‘We haven’t seen them yet’ Ceri answered.

A long haired woman with more dogs in her wake bore down upon us. ‘Deedn’t you ‘ear me shout?’ she shouted. ‘Zey are not een zis tree, zey are een zat one.’

She was right. On a surprisingly low branch on a tree in Kensington Gardens were four tawny owlets, sitting in a row. Assorted people appeared. ‘I see they’ve moved this morning’ some said, and others agreed. We had one thing in common. Welcome to my community, the world of birders.

For non-UK readers, Waldemar Januszczak is the Art Correspondent of the Sunday Times newspaper.

Photograph: Ceri Levy

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: announcers on the tube > bird watching in the art world > Ceri Levy > Emma Biggs > Hieronymus Bosch > Matthew Collings > poorly treated husband > tawny owls in Kensington Gardens > urban birdlife
6 Comments »

There’s a lot of real poor people in this neighbourhood,’ the shuttle driver says as a desperate woman with matted hair begs at our door. ‘Real poor and real lazy too’. I try not to catch the woman’s wild eyes. She’s filthy and open mouthed. Scabby and scratchy, she appears oblivious to the traffic.

‘Ah have three chillun, an mah husband was an al-co-hallic’ the shuttle driver tells me.

I’m sitting at a bar, watching an inaudible episode of something called ‘Amazing Race’, in which couples, flagged up as ‘the lesbians’,  ‘dating models Brent and Caite’ and ‘cowboys Jet and Cord’ visit the champagne house Taittinger. It’s hard to tell, but the competition seems to involve making a tower of champagne glasses.

Sitting next to me is a man who has been kicked off the plane. ‘Yeah they threw us off’ he says to the barmaid. ‘Someone said they saw fire trucks go by.’

The barmaid allows me to plug in my computer. I order a bottle of beer. It’s 11.40 pm. The beer is delicious. Perhaps it will help me to sleep on the plane.

‘Excuse me, please could I have a Heineken’ I ask politely.

‘Another one? Another Heineken?’ she says loudly, causing the fire truck man to turn round and stare. Bang goes her tip, I think, in revenge.

The airport is full of instructions and announcements. ‘Wolfgang Puck’s food service available in the Bar Area’ a sign reads.

‘The lounge is located on level 2, all military personnel are welcome’ the tannoy booms.

‘Baby Killer yelled at Rep. Bart Stupak on House floor’ runs a headline – exotic to me. It is interrupted by a flurry of excitement:

‘Breaking News:

House approves changes to bill.’

My nose is drying up, and my lips are cracking from he air conditioning. My body feels heavy. Perhaps the second Heineken was a mistake.  I remember the barmaid’s kindness over the computer and relent with her tip.

‘We are waiting for the president of the United States’ says the newsreader.

‘That’s right Wolf, we’re just waiting for the President to come out of the East Room’

As he arrives, boarding begins.

‘This is all about sleep so we’ll try and make that happen for ya’ they announce from the flight deck. And I do.

Crown Fountain by Jaume Plensa on snowy day near the Chicago Art Institute

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs
5 Comments »

‘The problem with him is he suffers from sexual anxiety’, says one bellman to another as I pass them on my way to the Art Institute. That’s a pretty sophisticated level of conversation, I think to myself.

‘Hello. Welcome to “Working With Ceramic Tableware”. My name is Emma Biggs and for more than fifteen years of my working life I can’t say I liked a single mosaic I saw made out of pottery.’

‘Emma?’

‘Hmm?’

‘You know the book we’re writing?’

‘Yes’

‘You know our least favourite projects?’

‘Yes’

‘Shall we divide them fairly between us?’

‘OK Tessa, as long as I don’t have the do the flowerpot and the birdbath.’

‘That leaves you with the panel made from china and working with mesh.’

‘Uh oh, OK.’

‘I can’t say I liked a single mosaic I saw made out of pottery’ I state firmly. Their faces fall. Why have they signed up for this class?  It is a provocative opening line. I will have to win them over.

‘But often you learn most from addressing your prejudices directly, and today I would be happy to work principally in ceramic for the rest of my life. The key to success is to analyse the nature of the materials, and …’

The hotel is confusing. It is laid out symmetrically. There are two banks of elevators, so if you mistake the one by which you enter, it is easy to go wrong.

‘Are you here for the SAMA Conference?’ I asked a bright young woman smiling at me from the lift.

‘Yes, I’m just off to breakfast’

‘Me too.’

‘We get out together, and I head in the wrong direction.

‘It’s this way’ she guides me, gently.

‘Thank you’ I say.

‘As we approach the door, the room rings with applause, and I realise I’ve misunderstood her. She is off to a lecture.

‘I’m so sorry’ I say ‘I’m going to breakfast’ and veer off in the other direction. A look of confusion crosses her face. Soon I creep back, hoping she doesn’t notice me. The applause was part of a series of tributes paid over breakfast to volunteers, donors and benefactors.

The buffet is a feast. I choose scrambled eggs and bacon. Tributes are paid to individuals, listed in groups.  At the end each group there is a ripple of appreciation.

‘And I would like to thank Sonia King’ says the speaker.

I don’t know what comes over me, but recognising my friend’s name I burst into spontaneous applause, compelling the audience to go along with me. It slows down proceedings considerably, as, out of politeness, it now becomes necessary to clap every new name.

The noble efforts, the good will, the lack of guile, the kindness and sincerity of the membership. I am overwhelmed. Oh no, please no, not here, I think. And – embarrassingly – I find myself lifting my napkin to my eye.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: Books by Emma Biggs > courses in mosaic > Emma Biggs > mosaic courses > over-emotional > over-wrought behaviour > SAMA Conference > using pottery in mosaic
3 Comments »

I lie in the hotel bed. It is 3.30 am. I am exhausted but sleep eludes me. Tomorrow I teach ‘Working With Ceramic Tableware’. I will be in the classroom at 6.45am. We start at 8.00. Twenty trusting faces look up at me and … what?

I think about my preparations of the previous day. ‘Chris can fix everything’, says Dawnmarie. ‘He’s the motor of Chicago SAMA Conference’.

‘I hate driving’ he says, as we get into her car.

‘Oh’ I say. Will that affect our journey? I wonder.

‘And these bellmen are driving me crazy. They’re useless.’

We drive to the Chicago Mosaic School and load the car with china.

‘Do you want any white plates?’ asks Chris.

‘Lovely!’ I say, and his eyes narrow slightly, as if examining a strange foreign being, which I am, in fact.

‘I have more if you like them’ he says. Perhaps he wonders if I meant it.

‘No, that will be perfect’ I say. ‘But could I have these?’ I ask, pulling out brighter, dustier boxes of fragments.

‘Really?’ he says, in a tone that hints I have overdone it.  ‘Perhaps I won’t need them’ I say, pushing them back under the shelves.

‘Do you have any masks?’ we ask the shop assistant. I’ve told Chris they’re essential, and he’s made a diversion to Home Depot to help me. ‘We shouldn’t cut china without them.’ We stand in front of expensive double-vented filtering masks. ‘Do you have cheap ones in a box?’ Chris asks.

The assistant is irritated. ‘You asked for a mask, not for masks. That’s why I brought you here.’

‘Ah’ says Chris, politely under the circumstances. He is patient and tolerant. I suppose he’s had practice.

I toss and turn in the bed.  Have I overdone the material?   Or will we run out. Forty students over two days. Their expectations haunt me, with innocent faces looking up enquiringly, preventing sleep. I’m going to watch a DVD to calm myself down — ‘Gomorrah’ or ‘La Haine’? ‘Gomorrah’ might do the trick. Violence might deafen the turmoil of anxiety.

Gangsters are being shot in the solarium, assassinated while they have manicures. I relax into reveries of old Italy.

Scene from ‘Gomorrah’. Living on the edge in Italy, an alternative to the insanity of insomnia.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: anxiety > Chicago Mosaic School > Chris Forillo > Dawnmarie Zimmerman > Emma Biggs teaching > insomnia > mosaic with pottery > SAMA Conference > Thank you Chris!
4 Comments »

When I set up the workshop there wasn’t an obvious career path to follow in mosaic. That had to change, I thought. Channel 4 had just been launched, and my husband – now former husband — worked in television, for an independent TV company supplying C4 with documentaries. Broad in scope, his interests swam against the tide of shallow fashion. His gifts were undervalued we both felt. His documentary ‘More Than Just a Road’, an in-depth examination of Essex town planning, brought the fascination of this arcane subject to a broader audience. His cult hit series ‘The A-Z of C&W’ took a pig-tailed singing gynaecologist to Nashville to meet the country greats. In his spare moments my husband was a keen gardener, but at all times he hunted intently for topics on which the media spotlight had not yet fallen.

‘I think mosaic might fit the bill’ I said.

‘Hmm’ he said, and I understood his point.

I found a clip in an art magazine, about an Indian Roads Inspector. Working all day in the open air, he gathered lost and discarded items, going at night into the green belt of jungle around his native city, to build, entirely in secret, a mosaic masterpiece – his ‘Rock Garden: Kingdom of the Gods and Goddesses’.  A party of health officials, traversing the jungle and spraying mosquitoes to prevent malaria, stumbled upon this wonder. The authorities were informed and surprisingly, instead of destroying the illegal site, they immediately recognised its exceptional qualities. It thrives to this day — a tourist destination second in popularity only to the Taj Mahal. The Roads Inspector was Nek Chand. You may already know his story.

I’ve found the very thing for you!’ I said excitedly.

‘I don’t think so’ my husband said, from a position of far greater experience. ‘I can’t really see what interest it has.’

Instead he worked up another fascinating proposal for a documentary — the disposal of industrial waste. He interviewed scientists and made contact with ethical moles in waste disposal research laboratories. The invisible dangers of polychlorinated biphenyls were being hushed up, he discovered. One big and influential company realised he was on to their disgraceful behaviour. We grew ever more certain our phone was tapped.

It was proving difficult to get his film made. ‘Even with Channel 4 – the so-called alternative channel!’ we told our friends.

‘There are other ways of looking at the disposal of waste’ I wheedled. ‘What about the Indian Roads Inspector? Why don’t you make a programme about him?’  He remained sceptical.  ‘Your time is precious’ I said, ‘we can work as a team.  I’ll write the treatment and you put it forward.’

Channel 4 expressed interest. They funded the trip.  Air tickets, hotels and a film camera were packed. ‘The work is amazing’ I said as he left. ‘You’ll see when you get there.’

Chand was no longer alone in his garden. A workforce assisted to see through his vision. Great vistas of sculptures were constructed with bangles, broken ceramic, old plugs and hair. Fields of mosaic–clad animals marched over hills, grottoes and mosaic-clad figures stood atop or beneath rushing waterfalls. The Garden revealed the eccentric creativity of its maker. I foresaw the film would be fabulous. Mosaic would take its rightful place on TV.

He brought back the rushes. ‘But where are the sculptures?’ I asked, as shot after shot lingered over compost bins, bushes, collections of small or stunted trees and the nursery ranged behind the huts in which Chand worked. ‘Didn’t you film them at all?’

He avoided the obvious — therein lay his talent. It was a novel perspective to take, I agreed. The time wasn’t right for mosaic on TV, not quite yet.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs
4 Comments »

In London in the late eighties there was a fashion for the distressed and old. The city was gripped by a frenzy of house buying. Everyone — except me – was feeling rich. The Conservatives were greasing the palms of protest with oil wealth, and half the city seemed to be on the move, trading up, peeling off the wallpaper, discovering with braying delight patchy pink plaster, and rag-rolling remaining walls to make them respectably patchy too.

I was feeling tired. I had three jobs, three children, and an open house for burglars. On the first occasion, my son and I came home with the shopping  ‘Who’s that, Mummy?’ he said.  ‘I don’t know — who are you?’ I growled furiously, grabbing a large man by the collar and pushing him against the wall. A skinny accomplice ran down the stairs with our possessions in some plastic bags, and my captive fought me off. Once they’d gone, I felt they’d been almost gentlemanly not to stab me.

Jobs one and three were similar – I looked after two delightful children, one French and one Colombian, starting at 6.30am and ending at 6.30pm, but job two – while all the children, both mine and my charges, were at school — was Mosaic Workshop.

I’m sure no one will ever have asked you this before’ an unknown voice said quite regularly ‘but could you make a mosaic that looks like ancient Roman remains?’ ‘What an interesting idea!’  Tessa or I would say brightly, not wanting to put off a potential client with an implication of unoriginality.

We made faux-Roman pavements everywhere – from Tunbridge Wells to Maida Vale, from Somerset to Chelsea Harbour. (I’m not making this up. I wish for poetic purposes the places would alliterate, Somerset to Sittingbourne for example, but I am sticking to the facts). Some were Roman figures, some were geometric floors, some were abstract/classical fusion (a style of the eighties much beloved by designers) and one – shown below – was Celtic-classical.

In one London mansion, a beautiful woman pushed an old-fashioned perambulator.  Her husband drove up in a vintage car. They commissioned a Roman bathhouse floor. At the front of the house workmen were constructing a marble bath in the centre of the room ‘In’ ‘arf gonna be cold in that barf’ said one of the workmen. ‘Marble dun’arf take the ‘eat out the war’er.’ At the back of the house the Renaissance garden was going in.

‘Mummy who’s that by the coats?’ said my daughter. ‘Not again!’ and we ran down the hall.

The Phillipino maids paid attention. ‘I care about beauty’ said the beauty. ‘In this house you are only to sweep with a besom’.

By the sixth break-in the lights in the sitting room were kaput and we couldn’t afford to mend them, so for illumination the burglars made a fire with some bills I’d left on the table. They stole my clock, and left the fire smouldering as we slept. Perhaps for us, like the rest of London, the time had now come to move house.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: burglars can be less violent than you think > Emma Biggs > London in the eighties > modern day Marie Antoinette > Mosaic Workshop > the life of the poor > the life of the rich > the sad effects of burglary
5 Comments »

‘Do you have a sponsor in Oman?’ asked an exotic voice. ‘Not at the moment’ I said, attempting sang-froid. I gestured excitedly to Tessa, and covered the mouthpiece of the telephone, in the days when it was obvious which bit of the telephone was the mouthpiece. ‘He asked if we have a sponsor in Oman!’ I whispered theatrically. ‘Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh’ I said, attempting measured tones to the gentleman on the phone.  ‘No, not yet’ I said.

‘He asked if we have been approached by anyone to work on Buraimi Mosque for the Sultan of Oman’ I whispered, keeping Tessa informed.

I put down the phone. ‘Of course, it’ll come to nothing’ said Tessa, with characteristic rationalism. ‘Yes, of course, it’ll come to nothing!’ I said, trying to pretend I was rational too.

Mr Patel came to visit. He would be our sponsor, we agreed. ‘I will supply the drawings, and a significant proportion of the mosaic work will be in gold.’  ‘No problem’ I said. ‘You understand this project is important to the Sultan’ said Mr Patel. ‘Of course’.

We sent samples. ‘Very good work’ said Mr Patel. ‘Can we borrow the school hall to make a template?’ I asked David, my children’s headmaster. ‘Do you know anyone who’d be a good school governor?’ asked David. ‘Let me think about that’ I said, playing for time.

‘The Sultan wants textured gold’ said Mr Patel. ‘I’ll send you a sample.’ I said.

‘I received the gold sample today. It’s very good’ said Mr Patel.

Two months until Christmas. We scraped up the last of our funds and bought the gold. The mehrab’s half-dome was complex to calculate. Thank God Tessa is good at mathematics, I thought.

Mr Patel flew back to see our work. ‘I must show it to the Sultan’s people’ he said.

‘When can we buy Christmas presents, Mummy?’ asked my middle son. ‘Very soon’ I said. ‘Miss asked me where my shoes were today’ said my eldest. ‘Slippers are more comfortable’ I assured him.

‘I have bad news’ said Mr Patel. ‘The work is very good, but you have used the wrong kind of gold. We must buy a different kind, and do it again.’ ‘Oh dear’ I said, fixing Tessa with a glaring, suicidal stare.

It was the week before Christmas. ‘Will Father Christmas give us a Game Gear Mummy?’ asked my children. ‘I don’t think he will’ I said.

‘A mistake has occurred. I will send you the gold.’ said Mr Patel. ‘We will fix the mosaic next year.’

I was pleased to see the post office van, though the parcel contained a surprise.  ‘Congratulations!’ it read.  Amongst tens of thousands of competitors, First Prize in the Pritt Stick Christmas Card Competition 1991 goes to …. my middle son!  The box contained a Sega Game Gear.

It was a happy Christmas for us all. ‘Shall we buy some shoes in the New Year sales?’ I suggested.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: being a committed artist > Christmas pathos > Cinderella story > Emma Biggs > Emma Biggs blog > Mosaic in Oman > Mosaic in the Middle East > Mosaic Workshop > poverty in the mosaic community
7 Comments »

We had a terraced house. On one side lived Monty, a bouncer at Ronnie Scott’s, the famous jazz club. Monty was an interesting character. He came home late, laughing and shouting loudly to himself in the early morning streets. His car was a boom box. It pulsed and vibrated with music. You could tell he was approaching long before he arrived. There were reports about the psychotic behaviour of a bouncer at Ronnie Scott’s in the Evening Standard and in Private Eye. It wasn’t Monty, we were quite sure.

He had a large and wild-eyed dog, called King, or Raj, or Prince. Prince lived in the tiny back garden and barked incessantly. He did what dogs do, with consequences pungently experienced on a hot afternoon.

On the other side lived a house of exotic butterflies, young, beautiful boys and girls with long hair, top hats, hippy clothes, a VW camper van and PA system that rang out day and night. ‘Trevor is practising the drums, Mummy’ my son would say. ‘Yes, darling, I know’ I would shout in reply. The butterflies were in a band called Miranda Sex Garden – classical gothic fusion. Their parties went for several days, frequently outside our bedroom window. Drunken girls sang along to Tequila Sunrise. Even at 4.30 in the morning I experienced this as an error of taste. I’d spot them later over the garden wall. ‘We tour managed Johnny Rotten. I’m friends with the Gang of Four, my boyfriend was the lead singer of the Mekons.’ Hip credentials jostled in my head, waiting to be spoken. I knew it would be desperate and sad to utter them.

Occasionally the doorbell rang. ‘My boyfriend is really ill. You have children. You must have a thermometer’ said Katherine, sex-pot singer songwriter. I mumbled. ‘I’m terribly sorry’ I said. What does the failure to own a thermometer tell you about a mother? I asked myself, full of shame as I  closed the front door.

Maybe the neighbours wouldn’t mind a screaming, whining, marble wet saw roaring all day in the garden, it occurred to me.

Exotic butterflies Miranda Sex Garden

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: disadvantages of dogs > Emma Biggs > Gang of Four > living with neighbours > Miranda Sex Garden > use of a wet saw > young mothers
No Comments »

I worked on my own for about a year. After a while I hired Tessa. I was happy to have her. She was a qualified architect, and understood technical issues. She was paid by the hour. Money was tight, and life became increasingly difficult. ‘Let’s just split the funds when we get them’ she suggested, and we did.

We made a baptistery floor for a Catholic church in the north of England. Fixing it, we stayed with the priest. His house was bare and chilly. ‘Help yourself to breakfast’ he said. Rising early, we toasted two pieces of sliced white bread and made a pot of coffee. ‘ I see you’ve helped yourself to the expensive stuff’ he said disapprovingly. We felt ashamed.

We worked every day. The studio window faced the school opposite. When it was break-time my children waved from the playground. The house groaned with more and more materials. Fruit boxes of glass and ceramic of every colour filled the hall. ‘Don’t your children cut their feet on the splinters?’ people asked. ‘No’ I said.

Money got tighter. The phone rang. It was an architect working on behalf of an Australian tycooness. ‘She’d like to come to the house to see you’ he said. ‘That would be great!’ I lied.

The house was shabby. Two limousines pulled up. From one car, a uniformed man opened the door to a tiny, elderly woman on very high heels. From the other, the glossy architect emerged.

‘Well, Emma, I like your style!’ she said. And with those words, the marble mosaic floor for the penthouse of New York’s Pierre Hotel was commissioned.

‘I thought she’d fall down the holes in the floorboards’ I said to Tessa. ‘So did I’ she agreed.

We’d have to buy a noisy marble machine. What would the neighbours make of that?

Marble mosaic floor by Tessa, of much later vintage. Miranda in the workshop in Holloway Road. Fruit boxes still in evidence.

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs | Tags: from rags to riches > frugal breakfast > life of Emma Biggs > mosaic in Lancashire > Mosaic Workshop
13 Comments »