My Illustrative Life

Remember when I planted a bunch of bulbs including some garlic?

They grew, of course!

>

That’s the garlic. Isn’t it fine? It’s not done yet, as you can see, but when it is.. there will be a lot. And I shall use it ALL!

Irises and crosuses (crocii still sounds better) too, though they’re in or nearing their prime already:

I think this type of iris is so weird looking. Like alien mouths.

I don’t know the names of the individual types of crocus. But I know that they are ridiculously easy to grow; put them in the ground, forget about them, be pleasantly surprised by small flower-cups!

This was an interesting texture - a rose hip that’s shriveled on the plant.

I hope I never stop being amazed at the colours that can be found in wood. This is burburis, which is apparently a very defensive plant. It’s danger-yellow when grazed, I’m told it’s poisonous-bitter, and it’s extremely thorny. Extremely. Ouch.

I spent twelve til four building and tending a bonfire of all the scrubby old dead crud left over at the end of a garden’s winter. It was a job of heaving and smoked eyes, trampling and poking and blowing and propping and coaxing and HEAVING HARDER. Ivy and other scrub tangles as easily as hair if left to its own devices! But I had a big shiny fork to help me, which was nice.

I’ve got no flippin’ clue why or when this went so crap. It was fine and sharp when I finished editing it.. fantastic.

It was a little bit like I had slain a forest spirit-beast; the branches on top of the bonfire were antlers and the weeds were its flankshag. Not the kind of death that makes you a villain, though. The kind that forges respect between the two involved, and makes you responsible for that area of woodland for example.

My mum and sister had half-term last week, so we took an overnighter in Buxton. To walk in nature, and.. look at stuff. We stopped at Chatsworth House (because my sister is a big squealer for Pride and Prejudice), which as you can see above is quite delightful. This is the view from one side of the bridge:

One of several reasons I am proud to volunteer for BW: Waterways are wonderful. So pretty! I drew as much as my freezin’ fingers would let me.

There are links to more pictures (reference/stock) of these gorgeous landscapes in the righthand sidebar.

Also fascinating was the toilet paper, where we stayed. No really, take a gander!

Lots of charming pokey shops, too; antiques and bookshops aplenty. A surprising amount of clothing, in the antiques emporiums in and around Buxton actually - maybe it’s a local thing, but ‘vintage’ seems to be creeping in all over where it was once disdained. I may be being overly romantic.

There was the most excellent bookshop. Second-hand, antique to current, FIVE FLOORS. It had free tea and coffee! That you could make for yourself! It was glorious, and I kick myself for not being in the right sort of mood to really appreciate it. Then again, I really can’t afford to be stocking up on old, old thick books with the sorts of covers that make you want to weep from the perfection of illustration.

Where was my mind? Photographic evidence:

The horrors (and adventures) of my youth.

Truth be told I came out with exactly what I did want - Teacher’s Pet by Caroline B. Cooney, a Point Horror (remember those?) that chilled me so royally that I refused to use the downstairs bathroom for years. I’ve been looking for it for months; I wanted to see if it still had the power.

In the story the heroine finds a rough workmans glove in the woods, which turns out to still have a hand in it. My dad keeps his work gloves in the downstairs loo. I was a nervous and imaginative child!

So, watch out for THAT review, coming soon..

It snowed! The end!

Today seemed like a ‘first day of Spring’; it was sunny though still cold, and crocuses are coming up. I sat on the front steps and read the first story in The Temple of Death.

The first story in the anthology The Temple of Death happens to be called The Temple of Death. It was written by Arthur Christopher Benson (1862 - 1925(1926?)), a man who seems to have had a rather painful life but who also seems to have been quite dedicated to making the lives of others better, if he could. The introduction to the book mentions he was a teacher, who was of the following opinion:

I am sure it is one’s duty as a teacher to try to show boys that no opinions, no tastes, no emotions are worth much unless they are one’s own. I suffered accutely as a boy from the lack of being shown this.

I get a little of the impression that he wasn’t exactly pro-woman, but I also get no impression that he was anti exactly, either, and it was hardly his fault alone that Eton was for boys, so lets allow him the benefit of the doubt.

Anyway, he also (according to the introduction of my volume, by David Stuart Davies) said that he wrote his (horror) stories for the purpose of the following:

..[To] touch with a light romance some of the knightly virtues which are apt to be dulled into the aspect of commonplace and uninteresting duties.

I have to say, I think that’s marvelous - and a darn fine raison d’être. I admire this man.

As far as I can tell, since A. Benson died in 1925 (or 26? wiki says one, intro says another), these stories of his are public domain. So here are the first two pages of The Temple of Death, read by your host (me). There are just over fourteen in all, and if you’d care to give me con-crit I’d be much obliged and attempt to improve my methods before narrating the next two or so. I’m doing voiceover work at both of my places of employ, and as such I rather need the practice. I hope you enjoy the story.. the devil’s yet to come.

Yesterday my mum and my sister and I visited my Great Aunt, who lives a fair way away in (my ancestral) Coventry, and took her to Coombe Abbey. Coombe Abbey, if you haven’t been, is awesome.

I haven’t taken any pictures of one reason it was so awesome, because that is probably illegal - there were tons and tons of kids there. Loads. I know it’s half term and all, but it was a joy to see youngins running about yelling at ducks, enjoying forest pathways, climbing banks, shouting “I AM THE TALKING BUSH” and shaking branches from inside evergreens which branch from ground-level, walking dogs, and QUITE CLEARLY being on dates. Too cute. If you are ever thinking, “oh alas children do not like nature any more, only wii, how sad!”, you should go to Coombe Abbey (at half term).

It has buildings, and grounds (lots), and just about every type of country landscape you could ask for. There’s a pond at the front of (what I think is) the hotel that has a sort of aqueduct non-bridge pathway across it; on one side it’s nature free and wobbly and undergrowth, on the other it’s nurture - angular and groomed, statues in the water, box-shaped box hedges.

There are paths to follow in various directions, which managed to turn me completely around and take me by surprise. I thought I’d reached a new building, but it was the one we started at. Cunning! The whole place has a sense of mystery though, the way it’s lain out - there’s always something just visible through or past or behind what you’re looking at.

The grounds were really, really pretty. These don’t do them justice because I am not a good photographer (and the camera I was borrowing is kind of weird and colour-bleaching/non-focusable).

Coombe Abbey also contains the spookiest tree-bourne sculpture I have ever seen. The black dog in this picture was being called forcefully by its owners, but I was willing it to stay in the frame long enough for the darn picture to take..

Seriously, is that supposed to be.. what is that supposed to be??

What’s a day out without a fitting outfit? NOTHING, THAT is what!! In a moment of great serendipity, my super-fantastic dreamskirt from Modelle - via the NASTY GAL sale - arrived that morning..

I was sure I would be able to see my own foot through the trunk’s various holes if only I stretched far enough..

I couldn’t.

BONUS: Me totally failing to replicate the awesome height achieved by my first run-up, which my fool sister MISSED CURSE HER.

And with that, I’ll go back where I came from.

Badly taken pictures, because I worry I will get robbed if I photograph on the street.

(To check my map; if you think I’m gonna indicate that I don’t know my way around in public, I laugh at you.)

More coming, if the Cathedral are cool with my sharing snaps from within. I couldn’t find a sign saying “don’t!”, but I don’t wanna assume.

Just after sawing up a bunch of wood; just before removing the two sad sad frozen frogs from the pond (reference pictures here, if you might need them. It just looks like it is resting, honest!).

This lace vest thing, I found it in a charity shop. It makes me feel like Maid Marian. Over or under, which is better? I think it probably depends.

Yeah. Depends.

HMMMMNNN Amy and
Temporary Secretary have let me know via twitter that they’re having troubles with - by which I mean, finding it impossible to be - leaving comments here. I really have no idea how to fix this!

So I’m asking two things: 1) can anyone give me any answers? and 2) If you try to leave a comment and it doesn’t work, PLEASE let me know! You can get to me on twitter (Illusclaire) or email claire [at] illustratorclaire.co.uk. I want people to be able to tell me I’m wrong about things, or more importantly how RIGHT I am.