Jamie's blog

The Bar tailed godwit

My alarm chirped at me and it was 3am.  I’d not had much sleep on account of my head been so busy with grids, measurements and images. and I was rising so early to finalise designs for the day to come.  In an hour and a half we were to descend onto the beach to make a protest against a proposal for a coal fired power station on our shores with the RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds).  The proposal would destroy a wading area for birds and significantly contribute to climate change.  There is no need in this day and age for Britain to source such energy; is it not so windy over here after all.

I woke Andy Moss at 4am.  His face was uncharacteristically blank and like a zombie he clothed himself, carefully taking one step after another, slowly becoming more alert as his body arose from its deep sleep.  At that moment there was a knock at the door and Jo Billingsley popped her head through.  Our quartet was almost complete.

We drove down to the beach in the dead of night, me desperately trying to see through the windscreen all fogged up by the warmth of our bodies snatched from our beds.  It wasn’t far to the beach and when we arrived there was no one but ourselves, the beach lit up for a moment by our headlights and then black as I turned off the engine.

The Super Nova sequence with the solar orbs at Druiridge Bay

We were to make two drawings that day.  One set of images were to be birds flying down the beach.  The negative space would be highlighted by the signatures of those people who had signed the protest, it was to be a visual demonstration.  This idea had come from some work we had done the week before.  Working with a youth group we had made some solar orbs in negative space with squiggles as the flares to highlight them.  Some of the kids had made pictures instead of squiggles; others had signed the images with their names.  It dawned on me that it would be poignant to make the birds using the signatures from the protest.  The Signature Bird was born; this was to be done by me and Jo with the help of the RSPB volunteers.  The second image was to be a face of a girl cracking as though it was in a dry river bed.  This was to be done by Andy Moss, the Mexican, the Major, the Moustache; he goes by so many names.  Joining Andy was to be Pandorà.  The quartet was complete.

Pandorà was waiting for us on the walkway.  We met her last week in Bradford whilst we struggled with some preparations.  She offered to help us.  She is an unassuming character and at first I was not sure what is was that she could do.  But now I feel a little embarrassed at how I underestimated her and I think I speak for everyone to say that we were blown away by her insight.  In the hours that she bestowed upon us sand drawing was changed forever and it seems a revolution in how to draw large images occurred that day.   I cannot tell you who or what she is exactly as I fear she may blow your mind.  What I can say though is that she is the Truth Teller and the All Seeing Eye.  She has such a noble and regal air that I feel she must be some sort of princess in another far off country that is perhaps not even of this world.

In the dark the four of us began plotting out the main points of the face image, overcoming obstacles that the darkness posed against us as they arose.  Like a drone Andy buzzed around the beach plotting the markers whilst Pandorà instructed him where to go in her calm stately fashion.  If it were me and Andy alone trying to plot the markers in the dark, then we would be fumbling around with frustration for hours only to get it wrong.  But Pandorà instantly knows where everything should go without any tapes or string; it is quite remarkable.

Soon the RSPB volunteers began to arrive and the drawing commenced.  Jo and I went to make the bird images that were to be photographed by the Aeroplane which is piloted by Nigel King.  Nigel is an incredible character and I feel that he needs a story of his own.  For now he is the magician of the air, taking incredible photographs that are far superior to any others that we have had in the past.

Jamie posing for the cameras with The cracking face. Drawn by Andy Moss and Pandora

It is characteristic of large sand drawings that you are often isolated in your own space as the team is so spread out along the beach.  Occasionally there is talking on the radio reassuring you that you are not alone.  Hand poised on stick, stick drawing in the sand, making marks that are yet to be signed with the rake.  We drew for four hours right until the sea was lapping at the wing of our final bird which was my favourite the Bar-tailed Godwit.  Myself and Jo drew it together in haste to try and beat the tide and we got the raking team to come and sign it before we had even finished the drawing.  I could not see the finished result as I had to run the 600 meters down the length of the beach for a press call on the work of Andy and Pandorà.  It was fantastic.  An anamorphosised face that was 100 meters long, done by just the two of them.  We posed for the journalists before the tide took the image.

The Bar Tailed Godwit signed in the sand

It was to be a great success on Irvine beach that day.  We did not know it at the time as we were so exhausted and ready to go to bed, our eyes glazed.  But we could not go to bed as we had to drive home for five hours to verdant Yorkshire.  The morning had been so intense that it passed into a dream like memory.  It was only the next day that we realised how successful it had been as the images of the face appeared in newspapers up and down the country.

“Jamie, I just saw your face in the Metro  and the Telegraph!”  This was a message from a dear friend of mine Danielle.  What surprised me though is that she was writing from Sydney Australia.  The images had gone global.

My thanks to Andy, Jo, Pandorà, the people at the RSPB and finally Nigel King who took all the ariel images.

Jamie

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Me and Mom

“Mommy, I’m tired.”  I am four years old and walking back from Grassington to the campsite in Appletreewick in the verdant Yorkshire Dales with my Mom, my hand holding hers. It is six miles away and I have already walked 6 miles there earlier that day.  I reiterate, I am only four years old.  My little legs are aching, I am so small and tired that I’m swaying as I walk, my ginger hair bobbing like a dandelion in the breeze, my eyes are blinking sleepily, taking in the rolling hills dotted with white sheep, my eyes close for a little longer this time, blackness, they open again and are greeted by the hills once more.  My mom looks down at me sympathetically and squeezes my hand twice.  She does this occasionally to let me know she’s thinking about me. I squeeze back.

“Close your eyes Jamie and sleep whilst you’re walking, I will guide you.”  My wonderful mother holds my hand more firmly; ready to show me the way.  I quickly resign to this, I know I am too heavy to carry now and that the only way back home is to walk.  I close my eyes. The green hills give way to darkness and I can only hear now as I sway from side to side, my hair tickling my cheeks as it bobs, my moms hand guiding me through the fields, the sound of the river Wharfe tinkling away gently to my right side, twittering birds flying over head, lambs baying to their mothers.  Blissful sounds and scents pass through me, soothing my aching legs, they are still working; as long as my legs are still working then everything is OK.

There is a slight rise in the path, but I do not falter, I have total faith in my mother, her grip tightens as she guides me, we must be navigating something difficult, I wonder what it is?  I then feel her hand move forward a little in a surge and then at the last moment she pulls back.  But before I stop naturally my four year old body jolts dead as it collides with an unmoveable object, I hear the crunch of my forehead jar against something firm followed by a dull pain. I open my eyes blinded by the light, they gradually adjust and I am confused by what I see.  There is a dry stone wall in front of my face and I seemed to have walked into it, but how can that be, my mom is holding my hand.

I look up to her, at first her expression is blank, and then her eyes narrow to creases and her cheeks bulge, her mouth widens and her body begins to spasm.  Although my head hurts I am firstly worried about my mother, she is convulsing now and her hand is held over her mouth, her breathing is erratic and interspersed by strange squeaks as she gasps for breath.  The squeaks get louder and are now joined by grunts and shouts.  Her eyes are so creased up that I can barely see them, tears are streaming from her eyes.  I then I realise.  I am generally not the sharpest tool in the box and at four years old was a little behind schedule. For a moment her convulsions lessen and her hand comes away from her mouth to reveal a broad grin, she caresses my forehead apologetically.  There is a momentary pause; the sound of sheep baying comes back to my ears.  And then it finally happens, my dear mother explodes with laughter, she is laughing at me, unable now to look me in the eye; unashamed raucous laughter, she holds her sides and doubles over bent should her ribs burst.  She has just walked me into a dry stone wall for the fun of it.  This is one of my earliest memories of cruel humour.  I laughed my four year old ass off.

The six mile walk home suddenly became shorter after that moment.  It soon became a game to see if I could catch my mom out from walking me into a wall again. I quickly became adept at this as I spied new targets ahead, but then she soon changed strategy and started walking me into trees and after that cow pat.  It was fun all the way home.

This feeling of nostalgia hit me last week as we carved away at the National Railway Museum, and after that Morecambe Bay.  The sculpting was great to do as always, but the very special thing was my time spent with one of my fellow sand sculptors.  A very talented woman who stole the show with her sign writing at the museum.  But for me it is the little bundle of life that is growing in her belly that is quite amazing, the way her body is changing seemingly every day to allow for it to grow and to nourish it.  I am told that as a man I am so lucky because I can wee standing up, but I would say that having a child grow inside you takes the biscuit.  Two hearts beating inside the same body.  It’s a great time for her now, but also the future, all the moments that her and her child will spend together that will one day become fond memories. Perhaps she too will walk her child into walls for the fun of it.

Jamie

Ps.  A special congratulations to the Mexican Andy Moss for fulfilling a boyhood dream of tooting the horn of a real steam train.  Andy has the actual model of the train he tooted at home.

The Mexican fulfilling his boyhood dream, "Toot, Toot!"

National Railway museum sand sculpture

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The Mexican Andy Moss picked up Martijn Rijerse from the airport expecting a short and rude Dutchman with a dark complexion, ready to drive for one unbearable hour to Liverpool where we were to make a sculpture in collaboration with TATE Liverpool’s Picasso exhibition organised by Walk the Plank. Instead, The Mexican found Martijn to be polite, reserved, tall and fair.  I am glad to say that this facade doesn’t last long and is occasionally shattered as Martijn has some form of mild torrets, some say that he is autistic, others say that he just has a very complex humour; either way he cannot help himself from saying what should not be said.  When I noticed a cut on a friends hand a few months ago, Martijn asked him “Was that a leaving present from your wife?”  Our friend was in the process of getting a divorce.  But other than that he’s an exceptionally nice person.  Unfortunately for him we had spent last week in Scotland with the indefatigable and exceptionally talented Dan Glover and The Mexican could not stop reminiscing about our ‘working holiday’ in Scotland with him.  Martijn had a lot to live up to and I was quick to dub him Number Two.

It soon became clear however that this was not going to be the case.  Martijn in small doses began to reveal his humour and charm our moustachioed Mexican with his dry wit.  On my complimenting Martijn on his knowledge of form making he casually brushed aside my comment and announced simply “It’s the basics Jamie, the basics.”  I from that moment lost all credibility with my team and am now know as The Amateur. I have been doing this for seven years now, but there is always something to be learnt from a Trojan like Martijn whose incredible skill is born of 13 years in the sand carving business.  There is a hint of talent there as well.

Even Goldy Locks was impressed.  Goldy Locks is otherwise known as James Haigh my lifetime friend.  The Mexican dubbed him with this name on account of him never been satisfied with anything.  ‘This chair is too soft, and this chair is too hard, this porridge is too salty, this porridge too sweet, this chicken is too seasoned, and this chicken is too plain.’  Goldy Locks’s motto in life is that ‘if everyone thought like him then everything would be all right as he is always right.’  On getting a curry he proudly announced that “We are from Bradford and have high standards when it comes to curry.”  I could see on the waiters face that he was thinking ‘well I am from India and I have high standards when it comes to curry as well.’  Unfortunately for our Indian friend, his standards were not as high as Goldy Locks’s, James had to order extra green chillies to spice things up and when the waiter asked if he liked them James replied with a dead pan stare and said “They add flavour.”  One of his favourite comments after a meal was “I’m not paying for that!”  I would then look over to him and reply, “I know you’re not James, that’s because I’m paying for it.”

"He did what!"

However, when it came to servicing Martijn everything was different and Goldy Locks had found his perfect bowl of porridge.  I could not believe my ears when after Martijn asked James for some help, he replied: “For you Martijn, anything.”  I have known James from the moment he was born and he has never said that to me.  Perhaps I can one day be as an amazing person as Martijn Rijerse.

Picasso sand faces

So we battled on through rain and wind in front of Liverpool’s Liver building, listening to the endless lyrics of ‘A Ferry across the Mersy’ hailing from the ferry that was crossing the Mersey.  We had the most water hungry sand imaginable which was a problem as we didn’t have mains water for the first part.  We made use of a triangular sculpture so that each of us could have a side to carve on whilst Goldy locks helped out along the way, baying to Martijn’s every need.

Martijn's Picasso sand sculpture in front of the Liver building

Number Two of course made a Picasso master piece and parted with all his knowledge on sand carving with the Mexican who is a newcomer to the sand world.  This elevated him to Number 1 in The Mexican’s eyes.  Sorry Dan Glover, glory is short lived. The Mexican made a very good piece himself as you will judge.  I formally introduce Andy Moss into the Sand world.  I made Picasso’s Dove of Peace which was nice enough when in the company of Gods.

After finishing we had a celebratory ice cream and said our goodbyes to the sculpture which was to be demolished the next day.  I am still awaiting the film of our good friend Ben the site manager trying to demolish the sculpture by running through it with his impressive 180 kilos or 20 stone.  I did inform him that the sculpture weighed 60,000 kilos but he was not to be deterred and bounced off the sculpture at 07:30 the next day.  This is a film I would like to see.

Andy Moss and Picasso

The sandinyoureye team with the dove of Peace

Thanks to all those involved and to Walk the Plank for having us.

Jamie

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Jamie and the Jellyfish

My head popped out of the water and I drew breath.  Whilst under I had hit a rock and grazed my shoulder, swimming amongst the jagged rocks at low tide was not the best place to be for a land lover.  As I came to shore Jade, a Scottish lass who works for the festival was just leaving the beach to go back to work.  With her red hair she is one of the prettiest Gingers I have ever met and it always brightened our day to see her beaming smile in the morning.  I stood there in front of her, stripped down to my underpants with a bleeding shoulder and wished her on her way.

Andy Moss and Dan Glover sunning on the rocks in their ridiculous hats.

As beauty walked off the beach I walked on towards my brothers in arms eating their lunch on the rocks.  As I approached, Dan Glover from America and Andy Moss who is now labelled the Mexican, were mocking me as I limped over the shells with the grace of a drunk, Dan then complaining that he couldn’t see on account of the glare coming from my white skin.  But they were unable to mock me deeply as they looked so entirely ridiculous themselves, Andy with his Pink Sombrero and black mustachio, and Dan with his Chinese style peaked hat.  I had a cowboy hat and together we were the Three Amigos.  I put on my hat and laid on a rock in my underpants so that the sun could dry me.  On sitting down I was fortunate enough to catch Dan on a rant: now that he had sampled Haggis he had to take the next step and buy a kilt in honour of his Glover ancestors that came from Scotland and then became plantation owners in America.  Apparently the Glovers were ‘good slave owners’ which is why so many slaves took the name on emancipation; this comment which was meant in the best possible taste led to days worth of relentless mockery from me and Andy.  And his pursuit of a kilt was yet another example of North Americans trying to claw back some culture that is more than 250 years old!  It was so good to have Dan there, we are fortunate that he has such a good humour and was not too perturbed by the choice of t-shirts I had given him, one that was so big it made him look like he was wearing a nightly and the other being so tight that he looked like the hulk in miniature.  But then Dan countered with the fact that the 4^th July was coming up and that we could all jump.

Crail Harbour

It is one of the great pleasures with sand sculpture that there are occasionally moments when people meet from across the globe who would have otherwise not met, and I am pleased to say that I think Dan from America and Andy from Yorkshire are to be lifelong friends. Dan reminds me of the manic toad from Wind In The Willows, he is so funny and has undaunting enthusiasm, whereas Andy is like Badger ready to mock him down and in his words “Outdan Dan.”   I’m not sure if they should meet too often as the resulting dark humour may get them into some trouble.  On his return home Dan was hankered by his wife for his vulgar language.  A real kinship was born in Crail.

Jade applying the finishing touches

As we ate our lunch Craig who is a steward for the festival came to eat with us and informed us that the BBC were waiting for us by the sculpture.  Usually this would cause me to jump to attention, but this day was so bizarre that I was to enjoy finishing my lunch.  Since 8am that morning we had had a frenzy of photographers and news crews streaming all over the sculpture and us one after the other.   I was not to carve anything until four thirty that afternoon.  I am certainly no model but enjoy posing in front of the camera like some Leonardo or chattering my Yorkshire on the telly.  It is always a cringing moment though when the photographers ask the other sculptors to stand aside so that they can take a photo of just me working on a piece of the sculpture that I had not made.  My credit to Dan and Andy for not breaking my legs whilst I was asleep.

Jamie and Graham from the Honey Pot Cafe

But the press frenzy which was reflected in the papers and news the next day was not a reflection of the sculpture, but of the festival it represented and the hard work of Debra Boraston who is the media dynamo for the festival.  It reflected the toil of the whole team who work the festival, many in their holiday time from normal jobs in the pursuit of quality in the arts and the joy of music; a vision I feel of the director Svend and his associates.

The A-Team waiting to catch a train

One thing that I did not anticipate was the hospitality of the people of the village Crail, who embraced us with open arms, Graham who let us dump 20 tonnes of dirt outside his cafe the Honey pot and complained not, only giving us coffee and the best carrot cake in Britain made by Edna; try it if you go there.  And a special thank you to Dorothy, a lady who on our first evening when I enquired “Do you have gravy with Haggis?” replied “Ach no, but you may sprinkle a dram of whiskey over it.”  At this she got up from off her stool and paced over to her house only to return with one of Scotlands finest single malts.  “Enjoy it on your Haggis, there’s enough there for a wee tipple afterwards as well!”  And indeed there was.

Jamie

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It was the late afternoon and we had stopped off at a motorway station on our way back from two days in Liverpool for a coffee.  We were in the outside garden, sprawled out on plastic chairs, the tranquillity of our mood not disturbed by the cars speeding by on the motorway behind the thin veneer of trees.  I looked across the table at Andy Firth and then Andy Moss.  Mr Firth was sat back with his eyes closed and face raised to the sky, his café latte in hand and mouth moving ever so slightly as he savoured the taste of it.  Mr Moss with his long black hair and moustache wore a downward gaze and cradled his French style long espresso; reminiscent of a holiday in Paris.  The thing that struck me so profoundly as I sat there watching them both was that here were two people dressed in the robes of utter contentment.  A peace within that needs no words or grand gestures, just a very comfortable silence that had been so well deserved.

Picasso's dove of Peace by sandinyoureye and Holly Lodge School

This moment of serenity had come by collaborating with two Liverpool Schools and sharing with them a day drawing in the sand on the great beach of Crosby surrounded by the ubiquitous sculptures of Antony Gormley.  These schools were Calderstones and Holly Lodge respectively, full of kids with charisma who like a small army of ants swept onto this huge beach and made two most wonderful pieces of art.  I thank them for their efforts and two great days spent on the beach with them.  I hope they didn’t ache too much afterwards.

The Dancer sand drawing made by sandinyoureye and Calderstones school

Also, thanks to the lovely Kathy Haywood who with great spirit marched us on and adorned the every so grateful Mr Moss with his Mexican sombrero with pink decoration; he will treasure it always.  And thanks to the chaps from River Media who were undaunted by the challenges of the scissor lift and were so patient with our bizarre choreography.  I look forward to seeing the films.

Jamie

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