This battered old brown suitcase came from my Mum’s house.
The faint monogram are not initials I recognise.
My Grandad was a dustman. He died before I was born.
My Mum was often the drop off point for the PTA jumble sale.
It is likely this case came into my family after being cast out elsewhere.
I wonder about the owner of the monogrammed case.
Who they were and where they journeyed with this tiny case.
It now lives in my studio filled with books and pens.
My portable nest of creative comfort.
A beautiful bone handled knife.
It mostly sits in the drawer beneath my sewing machine.
A multi purpose studio tool.
Screwdriver, opener, scraper.
Judging by the slight gunkiness of the end
I suspect a glue spreader at some point too.
My kitchen drawer is full of these at home.
There they are used daily.
As knives.
I love card games.
Portable instant fun.
Nearly always easy to learn.
I have lots of old packs of playing cards.
I love the artwork.
I love the battered edges pointing to a game well loved and often played.
I started gathering them with the intention of using them in artwork.
I can’t quite bring myself to use them if the pack is complete.
I chuckle at the thought of beating my neighbours……..
I run an art club in school.
They don’t have any plugs in the art room.
It’s a brand new school. Why no plugs?
I fill a sink with warm soapy water.
The kids think this is the greatest thing.
I am never short of washing up volunteers.
Never underestimate the humble plug.
I collect old tins.
Vintage tins.
Pretty tins.
Battered and scratched, well-used tins.
This one is home to some tiny black buttons.
I used them as eyes on a character I make.
Some tins still contain whatever the previous owner stored in there.
Underground, overground, wombling free,
The Wombles of Wimbledon Common are we.
Making good use of the things that we find,
Things that the everyday folks leave behind
.
I hoard old annuals.
Very old ones with beautiful illustrations.
Nostalgic ones from my childhood.
I paint on the hard covers.
I use the pages for collage and making envelopes.
This one is still intact, no cover removed or pages ripped out.
Too precious to use.
Childhood memories.
The Wombles.
My beautiful vintage typewriter from the 1940’s.
The clunk of the keys.
The slowness of making words.
There was a time when we took pride.
In designing and engineering things to function well and last.
We valued these items.
Decades on people covet them.
I wonder if someone will covet my laptop in 75 years time.
I’m pretty certain it won’t still work.
Neither will parts be available to buy.
My lovely red cooking pot.
Bootfair bargain at one whole Britsh pound.
Returned to my studio by a friend.
We’d had dinner at theirs.
I made sticky toffee pudding.
The pot needs to go back to my kitchen.
Sometimes I hide snacks in it.
A 120 roll of film.
From the days when photography was my prefered medium.
The darkroom, my playground and sanctuary.
Printing is my first love.
Just 12 shots per roll.
Every shot counts.
Film makes you less snap happy.
It encourages you to consider the details.
It’s delayed gratifacation.
Photography taught me see the beauty in the banal.
Beach treasure.
A measure of some sort.
Weathered and worn.
Obscured lettering and beautiful patina.
I wonder where it’s journey started.
What was it used for.
Before it was picked up from a beach in Maine.
Then sent to me by my dearest friend.
To sit on my studio shelf.
Fat Hen ANd Flo 