From the diary: A (VERY) PRIVATE VIEW

Artists are often photographed in their studios, and many of them look fairly normal in their spaces. Alas, not so for me. Consequently, I have put a moratorium on photographs of me in the studio during the winter.

I work in a good-sized studio in a draughty barn. I love this room, with its views of the fell and its atmosphere redolent of energy and possibility; it’s just the right size to accommodate the various activities associated with making sculpture. The sweet smell of vinamould and damp aromas of wet concrete and earthy clay cling to the air. Its concrete occupants, in various stages of finish, are natural inhabitants of that stone space. But it has no heating and is prone to leaking when the wind from the east blasts the rain through the cracks in the joints between the stones. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, it’s positively Baltic in the winter.

Since heating is unaffordable in such a high, ceilingless space, and as one who is prone to feeling the cold, I’m proud of the fact that I’ve found a way around this… an electric vest. This wonderful invention keeps my core toasty and is rechargeable when I come in for lunch and overnight. Over and under this marvel of modern science are various thin layers of warm, unattractive clothing. It can take time to dress for the studio, but it’s worth it: a vest, over which is a spencer, topped with a thin polo neck, on top of which goes the heated vest; overlaid on this is my son’s tatty old school jumper. All of this is finished off with a besmirched overall. On my head, and covering my neck, is a purple fleece balaclava, which can conveniently be pulled over my mouth and nose when mixing concrete in small amounts. I can fit my headphones and work specs beneath this. On my lower half, I sport some long johns, fleece trousers, waterproof over-trousers, thick socks, and occasionally leg warmers. Gorgeous is not the word for me. After donning my studio gear, I sometimes challenge my husband with, “You really fancy me, don’t you!” It’s a rhetorical question.

All goes well, and I can move around my freezing space fairly freely since all that gear isn’t bulky. But there’s a snag. I don’t want to be indelicate, but I admit to believing that, as a consequence of my sartorial choices, I have cultivated a larger bladder capacity, (or I’m just adept at ignoring its urgings). This works well for a few hours until matters become unbearable, and I limp, softly shrieking and groaning, across a broad patio to the house, where I fling off my shoes and shuffle to the bathroom in stockinged feet. Shrieking segues into relieved sighing after a frantic scramble to get through my several layers, annoyingly secured with drawstring ties, press studs and zips. When this first happened, my husband put his enquiring head around the door in concern for my well-being. Now he ignores me, except for the odd chuckle emanating from his cosy study across the passage and the occasional snide musing like, “Couldn’t you have taken up tatting?” Also rhetorical.