I always had an overwhelming urge to carve, to create. Around 7-8 years old, I had grown out of plasticine (don't worry – this was just temporary insanity) and was looking for a new sculpting medium.
I searched high and low for wood but all the spare wood had already been burnt or was fixed too securely in place. I was almost bereft with frustration and starting to feel I would never find anything suitable.
Almost ready to give up, I came across a large concrete breeze block amongst a thicket of *pee-the-beds and *mother-dies in some waste ground nearby. It was heavy and dirty, but I wiped off the crawlies and lugged it back home.
I don’t know how many hours I spent chipping away at this block, but it was — for me — one eternal moment of bliss.
I initially intended to create a Romanesque bust. In my fantasy (all childish creations are paired with fantasies of glory, aren't they?), this carving of mine would be held aloft by my proud parents. Reporters would flock from every country to marvel at this genius sculptor child. I soon realised, however, that the gap between fantasy and technique was somewhat wider than anticipated. I had to adjust my ambitions. My design ideas began to fall more in line with my skill level. In the end I opted for a free-form, abstract totem pole (ish). It resembled something like the image below (only mine was much more amateurish).
I continued on like this until all my dad’s chisels and screwdrivers became useless, blunted beyond repair.
I surveyed my work like a proud artist and set about finding a platform for the big reveal. I opted for the top of the *telly which was sturdier than our glass table. I draped antimacassars over the top and summoned my family to the lounge.
Their reaction wasn’t what I’d hoped. Mum gave a confused grimace and then burst into applause, her knee-jerk response to anything that could pass as a skill – probably as a result of reading too many child psychology books.
Dad’s reaction wasn't as encouraging. He thumbed the valleys and sharp edges of my work before narrowing his eyes at me. I wriggled a bit. My spidey senses knew something was off.
‘What did you use to make it?’ His voice was dark.
I knew breeze block was not the right answer.
'Just some tools,' I said, shrugging.
Dad sprinted to the patio where I'd been creating my masterpiece. His face was grief stricken. I watched with dread as he cradled his deformed tools.
And then I got a smack.
I never lost my urge to carve though. Many years later, I drove all the way to Derbyshire for a one-day stone carving course. I spent the whole day just chipping away at a piece of limestone and was at once transported to that eternal blissful moment I remember from my childhood. I drove home with numb and swollen hands, covered in lime dust and bursting with a sense of achievement. I didn’t even get a smack when I showed the result to my dad.
In case it’s not clear (guffaw), this is my carving of a Celtic knot formed by three interwoven cats. Of course that's what it is! It has a special place in my garden and is visited regularly by Trevor, my canine art critic.
*pee-the-beds and *mother-dies: these are not strict taxonomic labels for classifying local flora. Children, not having access to taxonomic journals of plantae, classified plant names independently. All this was based around completely made-up and terrifying mythology. Children were convinced that picking a pee-the-bed would result in that child peeing the bed for the foreseeable future. Picking mother-dies would result in the child's mother dying.
*telly: back in the 70s, televisions were heavy, deep and wide pieces of furniture. You could display almost a tonne of bric-a-brac on top.
Thanks for reading.
Love
Anji x
Did any of your hobbies ever get you in trouble?
SMARTSTEEM
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