Jamie's blog

Zara and the Sperm and Egg Sculpture

The flags were flying again over Glastonbury.  This time I had the joy of being at the festival before all the people arrived and was able to enjoy the creative hustled and bustle that brings the festival alive.  This year was also very different to last in that it rained.  It was fascinating to see the verdant hills of Glastonbury in a matter of hours turn to mud as the bulk of the 180,000 people marched in on Wednesday. But nobody was downhearted, it causes great amusement to watch people trying not to fall in the mud and great pride to see that they are not at all deterred by it and in fact embrace it.  The humble wellie is by far one of the greatest pieces of footwear on the planet.  Mr Wellie, or whoever you are that invented it, I salute you.

We were to make a sand sculpture under the creative eye of Zara Gaze and her company Sandalism.  Zara again employed this wonderful concept of a transitional sculpture that grows throughout the festival and we were this year joined by my good friend Dan Glover.  If the Incredible Hulk and Toad from the Wind In The Willows were able to pro-create, the Dan would be the spawn minus the green tinge.  He is hilariously funny and it is such a shame that Toad did not take up sand sculpting as Dan is one of the best.

Mr Toad © Estate of E H Shepard 2004. Licensed by Copyrights Group.

We never gave the sculpture a name but it was inspired by the coming into the world of a little bundle of joy called Huxley who is Zara’s new born baby.  He is just old enough to crack a most charming smile that makes everybody’s hearts melt.  The first phase of the sculpture was to make a group of sperm swimming towards the egg.  Enjoy watching the expression on parents faces as their child asks what the tadpoles are doing and then their panic when Zara gives their child a definitive correction: “….they are not tadpoles they are sperm…” The parents are then for a moment speechless before Zara succinctly gives the children their first sex education lesson on conception and the roles of Mommy and Daddy.  They then leave the sand pile with a sense of contentment knowing that there is now one very awkward conversation with their kid that they will not have to have.

A day or so later this sculpture then evolved into a six week foetus that most people thought was a dolphin.  We even had to write “human foetus VI weeks old”  and still people asked what it was, peoples brains are not working quite as well as usual at Glastonbury, It must be something in the air.  “It was once you my friend.”  After that it then transformed itself into a baby.

6 Week Old Foetus

The final baby finished

But of course the joy of Glastonbury is not the just the sculpture but the music we are able to see and the people that we are able to meet.  We camped next to a new band Ellen and the Escapades and then watched them on the Park Stage shouting “We love you Ellen!” much to their embarrassment.  These guys are very talented, watch out.  The Sushi girls then lined our belies with delicious food, and Shelly and the gang with morning coffee.  We danced and sang with people in the crowd embracing the music come rain or shine, and of course, I got to see my new sister and her wonderful family and friends again.

Dan watching Ellen and the Escapades

But there is one secret to Glastonbury that people do not seem to know about.  If there is one thing that a sand sculptor always has on him then it is a bucket and spade, no matter where he is going.  I even sleep with a bucket as you never know when it will come in handy.  So when we took our blue buckets to the concerts we were the envy of all those around us and naturally spread the bucket love as much as we could.  It’s an amazing feeling being in a concert, the music and the movement of the crowd.  But one thing you do not get is the enormity of it all as you can only see the hundred or so heads around you and that is pretty much it.  Most often than not you cannot actually see the performers on the stage breathing life into the festival through  their music.  You cannot see the 80,000 people sprawled across the fields and up the hill, bobbing up and down to the music with smiles on their faces.  But,…and here is the simple joy of the blue bucket, if you turn it on it’s end and stand on it’s base then you can see everything and the joy of the festival reaches a new level.  I feel a revolution coming on.

Bucket Love

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Zara Gaze and Nicola Wood working on Casandra

“Jamie!”  A southern accent, perhaps that of a cockney called out my name.  I glanced upwards into the throng of people and then back down at my tool ready to carve away in the sand again.  I don’t know many cockneys.

“Jamie!”  There it was again, unmistakable this time and definitely a cockney.  The caller was stood just outside the sand pit, he was an amiable looking man sporting a cowboy hat and shades and was looking somehow excited and enthusiastic.  I popped my head up in acknowledgement and stood up to greet this Cockney Cowboy. “Hi.”

I was at Glastonbury festival working for the wonderful Zara Gaze and her company Sandalism who was accompanied by Nicola Wood.  They had already made this great sculpture of a woman lying on her side before my arrival and the festival start.  But Zara had come up with a great twist to take back our maidens delicate form layer by layer so that throughout the festival you would see her be reduced to muscle and then skeleton.  A realization of what we are and a very new way of making sculpture in motion rather just in static display.  I really like this concept a lot and take off my hat to Zara.

Glastonbury festival is a most spectacular and bizarre place.  It is a totally unreal sight when you stand upon the hill of a rural valley and look down on the sheer mass that is 200 thousand people and their tents, gathered not to look at the cows but to simply to enjoy a week together in the pursuit of music and festivities.

Faithless playing at the Pyramind Stage

What it is about music that can hypnotise people I do not know, but what I do know is that 80,000 people jumping up and down at the same time to the beat of Muse is totally incredible. Listening to Stevie Wonder ponder his thoughts with youthful charm, Florence and her pals rock the pants off everyone, Foals a band I had never heard off totally amaze me, Faithless having everyone point one finger to the air in the pursuit of unity and oneness, the Edge from U2 making an appearance with Muse playing the ‘Streets have no name.’   I was living in a world of joy.  But the cockney cowboy had something to say that would top all that.

Once he saw me walking over to him I could see his face beaming with anticipation even behind his mirrored sunglasses.  “Are you Jamie Wardley?”  His hands were held open towards me, there was something unboundingly friendly about this person even though I had never met him before in my life, a kindness that you would never expect from a stranger.

“Yes I am.”

“You don’t know me,” perhaps he had read my thoughts, but I was not too put back by it.  Often in this sand business people approach you who you do not know,  “…Is your Dad called Roger Sutcliffe?”  This on the other hand totally blew my mind on account that I had only ever met my father once before and so for someone to know his name and that I was his son is to put it mildly a little peculiar.  It had only happened to me once before when a drunken fellow in a bar had recognised the face of my father in me when I was 18; commenting that I looked just like him.  But this was Glastonbury, not Bradford, and what’s more I was wearing a hat and sunglasses.  I gazed at the man and could offer only a simple answer.  “Yes he is.”

The Cockney Cowbow gazed at me a moment, his mouth widened at my words in a grand smile, his hands had opened even more and with an expression of joy he gestured to the lady stood beside him who I had not even noticed and announced “………Well, this is your sister.”

The sun beamed down the full time that we were at Glastonbury, the girls made a great sculpture which I was fortunate enough to be able to tinker on, me and Mike Copleston one of my greatest friends jumped to music so much in the night that we found it hard to walk at the end of the festival.  But the greatest moment was looking into a face that was very much like my own and who until that moment I had never known existed.

I have a sister.

In true style I demonstrated my flawed listening skills as we exchanged phone numbers, her hands shaking.  “Sorry, but what is your name again?”  I had forgotten it as soon as she had told me.  That evening I found their tent in the chaos of people and they welcomed me into their family, but the Cockney Cowboy who is Emma’s husband and actually called Neil had already done that, when he shouted my name he was not calling to a stranger, he was calling to his younger brother.  After some merriment and tales of new families, Emma and I lit a lantern together that I made a wish upon and watched it float into the night sky; and then it disappeared.  But that day another lantern was lit that will never go out and will never disappear.  It was the day that my family grew.

Jamie and Emma

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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