I knew it was a foolish enterprise before I set out. An hour and more into the trip, I really knew it was foolish. But by the end of the day I had seen a great exhibition in a lovely gallery, and such glorious scenery in so much colour that, inspite of traffic and weather and time, I couldn't regret it.
I decided that my vague notion of going to see Ian Phillips' exhibition of linocuts at the MOMA gallery in Machynlleth should become a reality. It was foolish because it was a long way and was going to take a long time (trains were an option, but a lengthier one and with umpteen changes). It was foolish, too, because in May he will be putting on an exhibition with Laura Boswell at the RK Burt gallery in London, to which I already had and still have every intention of going, and where I imagine a broadly similar body of work might be on show. I feel it might also have been foolish not to pay enough attention to the forecast and thus not realise that Wales (oh, and England) would throw all sorts of weather at me on the way out - hail, sleet, rain, proto-snow (you know, those tiny little snowball things) - causing me to wonder briefly whether I might not be making the return trip the same day! In the end, it was all bluster - it threatened but luckily didn't really deliver. In fact a return trip lit by the low sun behind me more than made up for all that weather.
The trip out was not great. There was, as I might have mentioned, the weather. Concentrating on that led me to make minor navigational errors which added to the time the journey took - as did some extremely cautious drivers (I realise it's not a crime) and an extensive rolling programme of traffic lights for verge-tidying, wall-building, roadworks and the like. And all the while, that niggling awareness that the return trip would probably take as long and that this hadn't been my cleverest idea.
I decided that my vague notion of going to see Ian Phillips' exhibition of linocuts at the MOMA gallery in Machynlleth should become a reality. It was foolish because it was a long way and was going to take a long time (trains were an option, but a lengthier one and with umpteen changes). It was foolish, too, because in May he will be putting on an exhibition with Laura Boswell at the RK Burt gallery in London, to which I already had and still have every intention of going, and where I imagine a broadly similar body of work might be on show. I feel it might also have been foolish not to pay enough attention to the forecast and thus not realise that Wales (oh, and England) would throw all sorts of weather at me on the way out - hail, sleet, rain, proto-snow (you know, those tiny little snowball things) - causing me to wonder briefly whether I might not be making the return trip the same day! In the end, it was all bluster - it threatened but luckily didn't really deliver. In fact a return trip lit by the low sun behind me more than made up for all that weather.
The trip out was not great. There was, as I might have mentioned, the weather. Concentrating on that led me to make minor navigational errors which added to the time the journey took - as did some extremely cautious drivers (I realise it's not a crime) and an extensive rolling programme of traffic lights for verge-tidying, wall-building, roadworks and the like. And all the while, that niggling awareness that the return trip would probably take as long and that this hadn't been my cleverest idea.
At last - after trailing along in another crawling convoy down the final curvy miles - Machynlleth. No searching for the gallery, there it was immediately. I loved it - a welcoming, domestic-sized entrance (an old grocery shop, I think? The history is on the website) leading to a bright, fresh space upstairs (and behind), where the Ian Phillips exhibition was on show. He mostly does large, reduction linocut landscapes and there was a good display of them. I was already fascinated by his mark-making, wondering where it came from, why it was there, and he very helpfully provided the necessary info in the introductory panel. He felt that the gouge marks that are an integral part of producing a lino plate suggested pattern, and that increasingly he wanted there to be pattern in his designs, to which end he took a residency with indigenous artists in Australia. Their marks, while decorative and intricate in themselves, also contain much cultural information, and he came back keen to build something in a similar vein, incorporating patterns that embodied Welsh symbols.
I knew that the exhibition would include prints produced by the collaborative group Pine Feroda, This comprises 5 artists, two of whom are Meryl Chesterman (who has an utterly amazing way with water) and Ian Phillips. The collaborative prints did not disappoint! A room so light did not lend itself to good photos, but here are some odds and ends. The image on the left is a small section of a Pine Feroda print, while the rest show a variety of Phillips' mark-making.
I knew that the exhibition would include prints produced by the collaborative group Pine Feroda, This comprises 5 artists, two of whom are Meryl Chesterman (who has an utterly amazing way with water) and Ian Phillips. The collaborative prints did not disappoint! A room so light did not lend itself to good photos, but here are some odds and ends. The image on the left is a small section of a Pine Feroda print, while the rest show a variety of Phillips' mark-making.
MOMA proved to be extensive, with several more gallery spaces, and I liked the David Nash cork construction in (I think) The Tannery - instantly recognizable as a sibling to his burnt wood structure at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. But time was ticking on and I was aware that I might meet more weather on the return trip and definitely would meet plentiful teatime traffic, so this visit was ridiculously short compared to the time spent getting there and back. On the way there I had more or less sworn I would never undertake such a trek again - after the gallery, I decided instead that I would just shoehorn much more available time into the next visit.
As for the journey home, well I was drenched, soaked, drowned in mad, intense colour. It was overwhelming - exhilarating and exhausting in equal measure. I would turn a corner and be confronted with a sweep of mountain in old gold and dark blood red on one side, slate blue and burgundy on the other; around another corner, a hill in dusty shades of bramble stain, with a stretch of land in front of it painted in buttercup yellow and burnt orange; one more corner and the same hill was set against brilliantly lit apple green instead. Everywhere there were winter trees in all the shades of green, as well as ghost white, rusty orange, cherry red and a most improbable pink. Not blossom but the purpley branches of silver birch, catching the light just so. It was a sort of miserable relief to reach duller scenery but much safer for driving. It brings home, though, how much drop-dead gorgeous landscape depends on the perfect lighting system.
And yes the traffic homewards was bad, and yes it all took forever, but it was so so worth it. Though I didn't do it, I felt quite equal to the prospect of another foolish trip today.
As for the journey home, well I was drenched, soaked, drowned in mad, intense colour. It was overwhelming - exhilarating and exhausting in equal measure. I would turn a corner and be confronted with a sweep of mountain in old gold and dark blood red on one side, slate blue and burgundy on the other; around another corner, a hill in dusty shades of bramble stain, with a stretch of land in front of it painted in buttercup yellow and burnt orange; one more corner and the same hill was set against brilliantly lit apple green instead. Everywhere there were winter trees in all the shades of green, as well as ghost white, rusty orange, cherry red and a most improbable pink. Not blossom but the purpley branches of silver birch, catching the light just so. It was a sort of miserable relief to reach duller scenery but much safer for driving. It brings home, though, how much drop-dead gorgeous landscape depends on the perfect lighting system.
And yes the traffic homewards was bad, and yes it all took forever, but it was so so worth it. Though I didn't do it, I felt quite equal to the prospect of another foolish trip today.
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