Threshold

 

The back door always stands open in the morning.

I barely remember it being shut, although I am sure it was, of having to open it, although I am sure I did.

The door stands open with my Grandad peeling spuds, just inside ready for the midday dinner.

A feeling of warmth, safety, happiness….family.

In my mind it is always a sunny day, every day, the sun pouring in over the threshold, and me, running in and out. Up and down the deep concrete step, white grey warm, and live with tiny, legged, blood red specks.

Rows of cabbages up the path, heaped potatoes inside and out.

Sunny mornings, and Grampy in the door way, knife in hand, peeling

Into the bowl with the mended handle.

 

A feeling of warmth, safety, happiness….family

Recent Works.

No news

 

“He will come back alive, I can see him walking up the path”

 

I believe her name was Mrs Prichard, the Rectors wife at North Wraxal, around the time of the Second World War.

She was also known to have some psychic ability, saw things it was said.

 

My Uncle was missing at the time, as it turned out a prisoner of war.

But nobody knew….

When all feared the arrival of a telegram….

Time was going by

No news.

 

“He will come back, I can see him walking up the path”.

Words of reassurance applied like a salve.

To the rawness of not knowing.

 

Years later it was often referred to by my Mum,

but I never asked if it helped to ease, I wish I had, or if anyone even believed.

This was a very different faith.

Layers caused by time, obscuring the detail, the image, spread like fat, smears of butter,

Buttered greaseproof.

Flaked 2016-17

Brasso

 

I remember sitting on the carpet with Mum.

Worn, red woollen with white sprigs.

Threads are starting to show through from the backing,

Another afternoon we will colour these with a felt pen.

 

This is a holiday job, along with polishing the parquet in the hall.

 

All of the brass is spread over the floor on sheets of newspaper

ready for cleaning,

 

Pungent liquid is poured carefully from the can.

A pile of old dusters

One wipes the Brasso on and then rubs it off,

Another will be for the polishing after. My job.

 

It’s done and old lustre sits on smudged newsprint.

Our fingers coated, drying and uncomfortable.

A metallic tang and tarnish blackened cloths.

 "Shabby metal, grey green dull with a sheen of bloomed tarnish, individual with use, time etched. Touched.

Hard plastics, bright, Bakelite crust edges, pie lidded, ivory and black.

Paint flaked".

  • White Tumblr Icon
  • Twitter Clean
  • Facebook Clean

Julie Begen - Mixed media Artist. Creating drawings, paintings and textile pieces, with an aged, vintage feel. I collect everyday domestic objects from the past. Photographs, kitchenalia,  sewing stuff, buttons....the dicarded detritus those who have gone before us.

© 2016 by Julie Begen. Proudly created with Wix.com