Hipster Spinster

Sketches of Morocco

Wed, 08 Apr 2026 18:37:45 GMT

A selection of sketchbook illustrations inspired by time in Morocco. Can't get enough of the striking contrasts between blue robes, blue sky and rich ochre earth!

Savannah Soulmate

Fri, 30 Jan 2026 11:05:50 GMT

In September 2025 I spent 5 weeks volunteering at a Cat Rescue Shelter in Southern Spain. A piece of my heart lives there still...

Soulmates are often found in unexpected places. Mine was under a bed in Andalusia. His cowering silhouette framed two huge eyes. He was thin and trembling and silent. She’d told me his story in the truck, as we rattled over dried-up river beds, along winding roads towards blue-grey mountains capped with cloud. Sold when he was very young, then returned amid a catalogue of complaints about his back legs, his hips, his alignment. No good for breeding. No good for selling. A factory reject. A waste product. No wonder he was terrified of humans.

For two days he remained in hiding, frozen with fear. Too scared even to eat. I moved slowly and murmured soft mantras: good boy; beautiful boy; you’re safe now . At last, midnight crunching nudged me awake. I smiled into the darkness.

My mantras grew into rambling monologues. Detailed accounts of my daily duties and tales of the other rescued residents beyond the bedroom door. In full flow, I almost missed his small interjection. From the shadows of the tented bedspread came a questioning yowl, raw with the pain and confusion of his short life. A shy face appeared. Bright eyed, tall eared, with the exotic markings of his African serval ancestors. I held my breath, turned statue-still as he stretched out an elegant neck and sniffed my foot.

Day by day he introduced himself. Let me stroke his sleek back and gazelle-like legs. His creamy-coloured chin and striped monkey tail. Finally he stretched out, a full metre long, presenting his soft leopard-spotted belly. His sad yowl turned into a vast repertoire of chirping trills and singsong chatter. I told him I’d read that his breed could hold a conversation for up to 30 minutes. We discussed the article at length.

He spent his days recovering long-lost toys from under the wardrobe. Learning how to open cupboards and drawers. Watching me in the shower and on the toilet with eyes wide and head tilted. Each night he would curl up on the pillow, lay one golden paw on my arm then purr like a Harley Davidson til morning.

Feline friendships followed: with his silvery sister Imani, discarded by the same breeder for being ‘ugly’; Kiki the big black Maine Coon; Robert the one-eyed ginger moggy. Group activities of stealing socks and hiding the soap were added to his itinerary. Beyond the walls, the wilderness called to him. There were trees to climb, thickets to explore, open spaces to sprint through in a blur of frenetic freedom. At nightfall he would collapse onto the bed and recount his adventures as I stroked his sleepy head.

That morning he went out early, sniffing the cool air, serenaded by birdsong. I watched from the window as he disappeared into the tall bamboo on the riverbank. When he returned I would be gone. The bed stripped. The wardrobe empty. He’ll be ok , I whispered. As for myself, I wasn’t so sure.

Baptism of Solitude

Thu, 14 Aug 2025 09:46:21 GMT

A short story inspired by Paul Bowles' essay of the same name and my own experiences of the desert.

Baptism of Solitude

It called to me with a silent cry. And I knew I needed to go. Beyond the rusty window bars and the chaotic patchwork of rooftops, it shimmered on the horizon, dreamlike. White gold in the morning light. Undulating, unfurling like billowing silk. It was a physical need, an ache that I could no longer ignore: I needed to go into the desert. The realisation made me tingle with excitement and dread.

People go into the desert for many reasons: to test themselves; to find themselves; to lose themselves. To be reborn in what the French call the baptism of solitude . It is said that when a man has been to the desert and been under its spell, no other place is ever quite enough for him. My restless mind flickered with assent to all of it. But this wasn’t a measured decision. It was a magnetic yielding to a primitive urge that tugged at my gut.

I made enquiries and by evening everything was settled. The proud father of ten children and owner of fifteen camels, he said he was thirty-eight, but looked much older with his sandblasted skin and wiry frame like a gnarled acacia. His name was Yeder. He told me it meant a free spirit, a soul which refuses to be captured. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad omen. However, following a fierce round of haggling, he was mine for 1000 dirhams. We would leave after two sleeps he said, at sunset, weather permitting and God willing.

Throughout the intervening days, I nervously watched the horizon, alternately praying for clear skies and abortive sandstorms. Finally the day blew in with a gentle breeze, the blue dappled with cotton wool clouds. Terrifyingly perfect.

The bus heading south was as unpredictable as the weather. Most weeks it went on most days and stopped at most towns. But, at the mercy of dust storms, floods, religious festivals and mechanical failure, its departure was by no means guaranteed. So it was with surprise and relief that I elbowed my way up the rickety steps, crushed between veiled women burdened with bulging bags and howling infants. I asked the driver what time we would arrive. Only God knows, he replied, fingering the prayer beads that hung from the cracked rearview mirror.

The bus stuttered and shuddered along rutted roads. Beyond the dirty window the landscape faded like an ageing photograph, the colours merging into a flat palette of ochre and dun. Squat homes were sprinkled along sand-strewn streets, slowly crumbling back into the dusty ground. Occasional figures glided by in jewel blue robes that flowed like water. Then nothing. Just rock and sand and sky stretching to the ends of the earth.

Yeder was waiting, crouched beneath a lone acacia tree. He nodded an almost imperceptible greeting through a curl of cigarette smoke. The camels were already saddled and cushed. A thin, ragged boy flitted between them adjusting their harnesses amid a chorus of guttural grumbles. Yeder rose and approached, blue robes fluttering in the breeze. My third son, he said, nodding at the boy. Reza - it means contented and happy. At the sound of his name, the boy looked up, dark eyes shy beneath long lashes.

I mounted the camel without grace, emitting exclamations far cruder than the animals’ grunts. Beside me, Reza hopped up silently and shushed his camel to standing in a sinuous union of boy and beast. He glanced at my flushed face, a smile scampering across his lips. Yalla, called the boy’s father: let’s go.

I don’t know who described camels as ships of the desert. The ride was more reminiscent of a rollercoaster. Every tiny undulation of the terrain seemed magnified atop the camel. I lurched and bounced and hung on for dear life over invisible peaks and troughs, much to Reza’s amusement. I smiled back at him. Quelle âge as-tu? I asked. Huit, he replied quietly, holding up eight fingers and beaming a gap-toothed smile. The exchange seemed to embolden the boy, who began reciting his entire French repertoire. Je m’appelle Reza, j’ai huit ans, j’ai six frères et trois sœurs, j’habite dans le Sahara, il fait beau aujourd’hui, voulez-vous du thè, monsieur? voici le feu, voici les chameaux…His small, singsong voice soon became part of the hypnotic rhythm of the camels’ stride. Up, down, up, down, voici la tente, up, down.

When Reza’s recitation petered out, it left only the buffeting of the wind and the soft clump of camels’ feet on the baked ground. Strange rock formations loomed up, ringed and ridged and alien. We picked our way between skeletons of trees that jutted out of the sand like ancient shipwrecks. This was the graveyard of nature, the earth’s carcass picked bare.

I’d lost all sense of time — we seemed to have travelled beyond the jurisdiction of past and future into a realm of infinite present. Minutes, hours hovered like a mirage, as featureless as the barren inclines. The dying sun was the only marker as it melted into the horizon, draining the colour from the landscape. High above furrowed clouds, a half moon watched us, unmoved and unblinking. Yeder led us to a hollow fringed with stunted scrub. At his whispered command, the camels knelt, flinging me forwards into powdery sand. Reza’s little laugh echoed across the empty expanse.

As father and son busied themselves hobbling the camels and collecting firewood, I scrambled up a pale dune. Sand swallowed up every footprint, erasing all trace of my efforts, my existence. I sank down onto the cool ridge at the summit and gazed out into the stillness. Endless sand. Endless sky. Endless silence. I shivered. I knew it was not just from the chill of the cooling evening air. The desert stared back at me, seeing into my very soul. One by one my thoughts unravelled. They blew away into the emptiness, leaving my mind as clear as the twilight dome of sky.

Far below, the first sparks of the campfire floated up into the blue night. The glow drew me back down into its circle of warmth and protection. Tea was poured into gritty glasses. Blackened bread was broken. Reza added more twigs to the fire, his features dancing in the flickering orange glow. Yeder slipped away. I could just make out his silhouette ascending a ghostly dune. His prayers carried across the desolation; crying out, ragged and raw, to an unseen God.

Thick woven blankets were spread out beside the last embers of the fire. My aching limbs collapsed, moulding themselves around the sand’s hollows. And there I lay, motionless, my body as heavy as a corpse, my senses alive with awe. The air was still singed with woodsmoke. Ceaseless winds scattered the sands with a fierce hiss. Somewhere in the greyness beyond the camp, a howl. I pulled the rough blanket closer around me.

Above, a universe of stars flared and shimmered; ringing, singing with piercing clarity. Like pin pricks in the firmament, giving glimpses into another world. I traced Orion. The Great Bear. The Plough. The distant blaze of a meteor arced towards earth. I forgot to make a wish.

I awoke to the sound of Man communing with God. Yeder’s voice drifted down the dunes. The sun’s first rays streaked the lucid sky like a searchlight. I lay back, speechless, devoid of thought but teeming with sensation. Voici du thé, monsieur, Reza said, handing me a small glass of steaming gold. I struggled to sit up. It was as if I was being speared simultaneously through every muscle. Ça va bien, monsieur? the child enquired. Oui, oui, I croaked. My throat and tongue and nostrils were lined with a fine layer of sand.

The heat was already brutal, throbbing from the sweltering sky. Silent flies clouded around me, landing on my lips, my cheeks, my eyelashes. I swatted them away. The tiny exertion sent pain shooting through my bicep and sweat trickling down inside my sleeve. Reza was already kicking sand over the fire’s embers. Yeder was loading up the camels. We must leave soon, he said, before it gets hot.

Somehow I heaved myself up onto the snarling camel. I winced with the animal’s every movement. The heat hammered at my skull like a madman. Never before had I felt such shock and terror at the fragility of my body. A pasty, pampered being like me had no place in this cruel land. Yalla, called Yeder, yanking the first camel onwards by the frayed rope snaring its bottom jaw. Behind me, Reza resumed his rhythmic roll call: voici le soleil, up, down, voici le ciel, up, down, voici le sable… The monotony washed over me in waves of nausea. I closed my eyes to block out the sun’s blinding inferno. Against closed lids, flashes of colour burst like fireworks, crescendoing until everything splintered into brilliant white, an explosion of pure radiance, my heart fluttering like the wings of angels all crying out monsieur! monsieur! Ça va bien?!

Days later I slid, disorientated, from between damp, crumpled sheets and finally opened the shutters. The fever had passed. My aches and pains had faded to a vague stiffness. Vous avez beaucoup de chance, monsieur, the doctor had said, a sternness to his voice. Le desert, c’est très dangereux.

The familiar drone of traffic drifted up from the street; car horns, drilling, shouts. The telephone rang again. I ignored it and glanced down at the pile of papers on the desk. Immobilised by a heavy paperweight, the corners flicked restlessly in the sparse gasps of breeze. A fly circled the gloom, searching in vain for freedom. And then I looked up. Out beyond the rusty window bars. Beyond the chaotic patchwork of rooftops. Still it shimmered. Rose gold in the evening light. Glittering like a half-forgotten dream. The ache had shifted from my limbs back into my soul. I called out with a silent cry, to the part of me that lay beyond the horizon; the part of me I had left behind in the wilderness.

The Wise Old Owl

Thu, 05 Jun 2025 16:24:05 GMT

The Wise Old Owl

They think I can’t see them. Little do they know that this high shelf in the corner is the perfect perch from which to survey my territory. Thankfully they never dust up here, so I sit undisturbed among the fluff and cobwebs, observing the world below. But it’s not like I’m alone up here - oh, if only! Unfortunately I’ve been sentenced to share my roost with this flock of misfits. Crushed up against each other with barely an inch of personal space. It’s unbearably claustrophobic. Completely unnatural. After more than twenty years together on this shelf we’ve learned to make the best of a bad situation, but I’d be lying if I said they don’t still irritate me daily.

The eagle’s the worst - he thinks he’s God’s gift even though the point of his beak has snapped off and he’s lost more than a few tail feathers. And the kestrel tries my patience somewhat. He’s simply pathetic, still lost in an endless identity crisis triggered by one clueless kid who called him a hawk a few years back: get over it, son; if you paid more attention you’d know they use far worse slurs these days. The cockatoo - oh don’t get me started on the cockatoo - I swear there’s not a single braincell in that frothy, flouncy head of his. He spends all his days admiring his ridiculous dusty quiff in the cracked mirror, like some has-been rockstar. I must admit I do feel a certain sympathy for the raven, however - he’s been most carelessly left facing the wall for years now. What kind of a life is that? He rarely complains though, a very humble chap for whom I have considerable respect. And I do make a point of updating him from time to time for which he’s always most grateful.

Next Thursday it will be exactly ten years since I left this shelf. An entire decade! An era! Almost three natural lifespans for my kind. Of course in those days, life was very different. In those days the room was ruled by Miss Downie, a bright-eyed old bird with the gentle coo of a wood pigeon. Each morning we would watch as she handed out paper, chuckling to herself at the chorus of questions regarding that day’s subject matter. As pencils were sharpened, the anticipation mounted - what treasures of the natural world might they draw in this lesson? The pine cones with their intoxicating smell of resin? The iridescent conch shell that whispered secrets of the sea? Or might it be our turn to be plucked from the shelf and swoop into the spotlight? We followed Miss Downie with our beady eyes as she hobbled across the room. With a quickening heart, I delighted in every endearing detail as she drew near - the wrinkly wattle wobbling beneath her chin like an old turkey, the grey curls of her plumage, the gnarled branches of her fingers reaching up towards the shelf…

With my head still spinning it would always take a moment for the fledglings’ faces to swim into focus. Young mouths gaped wide, accompanied by a contrapuntal chorus of is it real, Miss? is it dead, Miss? can I touch it, Miss? My appearances always caused quite a stir! As the hysteria died down I would steal a glance at these curious creatures in return. They were so much bigger than they looked from the safety of the shelf, their chubby faces peppered with pimples, their clumsy feet like hulking great tree stumps. And the voices! Mon Dieu! Their joyful squawks were loud enough to be heard from even the highest branches of a lofty pine. When I cast my eye over their drawings, sometimes I smiled, sometimes I shuddered. Let’s just say it’s fortunate I have always been blessed with healthy self-esteem.

But my role went far beyond that of an artist’s muse. Whenever a small fledgling sat silent and sullen in the corner, Miss Downie would whisper the magic words: if you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong, maybe you’d like to tell the owl? He’s a very good listener. Due to basic matters of respect and confidentiality I cannot disclose any details, but the stories I have heard could fill a book. And some of the tales would make a taxidermy eye weep. Loneliness, bullying, parents splitting up; week after week the poor souls spilled out their sorrows, comforted by my stoic silence and soft feathers.

But those days are long gone, as is Miss Downie. I suppose it all began the day Ms Hunter swooped in with her gaudy sheen and sharp beak. She lived up to her name - stalking through the classrooms, scanning every corner for prey. I remember hearing her talking about Miss Downie in her strange, foreign tongue: not results-driven; not hitting her targets; not adhering to the competency framework. She’s had her day. Her laugh quietly crackled like the first burning twig of a forest fire.

In the following weeks I observed changes to Miss Downie’s perch. Her finely grained slab of oak was soon buried beneath stacks of paper. At first I thought it was just seasonal, but as the months went by the papers only piled up more, like dead leaves in autumn, the bottom layers rotting into mulch. Miss Downie became more nocturnal, still awake and hunched over the paper-strewn perch long after the fledglings had left for the day. Her song changed. Her gentle coo became a heavy sigh like the November winds. Sometimes, as the moon rose, I would hear her sniffing, whimpering like a small animal trapped in a snare. The fledglings changed too. Their raucous springtime chorus was muted to a dull murmur. They no longer asked questions. They no longer laughed. Sometimes I would catch one of them gazing up at the shelf between yawns, perhaps remembering the thrill of our last encounter. But it was fleeting. Get on with your work , Miss Downie sighed. If you don’t finish shading the photocopied circles accurately before the bell, you’ll have to complete it for homework. Next week there will be an assessment. Ms Hunter is not happy with your progress.

It wasn’t long after that Miss Downie vanished. The Hunter paraded through the room with her latest catch - a noisy woman in a shiny suit, both of them cheeping and chirping about grades and league tables and standardisation . Since then, they have come and gone in rapid succession: a Miss Smith, a Mr Lamont, a Mrs Crawford, and too many others for my ageing brain to name. As a species, they seem to have much shorter lifespans these days. It’s hardly surprising - their habitat has degraded at a worrying rate. There are more empty chairs too - many of the fledglings seem to have flown the nest. I hear they have migrated to other rooms, lured by the promise of high-value degrees, good career prospects, well-paid jobs. So here I sit, among the dust and cobwebs, with only my memories to comfort me. A few portraits of me and my companions still hang high up on the far wall, but most have been torn down. No sad fledglings are sent to me now - they’re left to stew in their misery, slumped and scowling into their tiny screens, then given demerits for not engaging.

I know our days on this shelf are numbered - we’re taking up space . We’re creepy . We present a health and safety risk for learners with allergies . Each day I patiently await our fate. The eagle and the kestrel are both in denial. The cockatoo is oblivious of course. I’m still considering how best to break the news to the raven. But I know it could come at any moment - the pounding of high heels on wooden floorboards, the looming approach of a yellow rubber glove, then the ominous rustle of a black plastic sack.

Heaven and Hell in Chefchaouen

Sun, 10 Dec 2023 13:08:53 GMT

Behind the glossy Instagram images lies another side of Chefchaouen...

Chefchaouen. The Blue City. A magical oasis of pristine sapphire stairways and stunning azure lanes. Jasmine and oleander cascade over cerulean walls, a vivid rug of petals scattered across the cornflower cobbles. Ginger and white street cats laze in the cobalt shade, effortlessly pleased with themselves and their perfect accent colours. The smiles of Berber women beam from beneath decorated straw hats and baskets of herbs. Mysterious figures cloaked in woollen burnooses glide through the blue dream world.

At least that’s what it looked like on Instagram. The carefully curated, airbrushed version of this Moroccan mountain town. But what they had failed to capture in all its other-worldly glory was Chefchaouen Bus Station. And its toilet.

If the town itself was painted blue to connect it with Heaven, the Bus Station was resolutely rooted in death’s alternative destination. A silent haze of lethargic flies hovered at head height in the sickly yellow strip-light. In the centre of the grimy concourse lay a bizarre mountain of mail. A paunchy man in a sweat-soaked uniform was yelling at no one in particular and gesturing furiously at the pile of brown envelopes and parcels. A few young men slumped on corroded metal benches, passively watching his performance as they smoked. I tried to hold my breath against the overpowering stench of drains and peered around the terminal hall for a sign. Not necessarily a sign from God, just a vague indication of where the bathroom might be. I had a bad feeling about this place, but with a churning stomach full of ominous flutterings, and a five hour bus journey ahead, a visit to the facilities seemed unavoidable.

As I exited the terminal building I noticed a tattered piece of cardboard nailed to the wall on which the word ‘toilette’ was scrawled in biro along with a shaky arrow. I followed its lead across the tarmac towards what could loosely be described as a building. The structure’s crumbling walls were topped with a millefeuille of materials from mangled sheets of corrugated iron to ripped plastic sacks and polythene. In front was a scrapheap of broken plastic chairs, refuse bags spewing out their putrid contents and a scowling man slouched on a crate guarding two foreboding doorways. He didn’t look up as I approached, nor when I said ‘excusé moi’. ‘Toilette ici?’ I asked, hoping he’d direct me elsewhere. ‘Deux dirhams,’ he barked, thrusting out a grubby hand. I reluctantly rummaged in my purse and dropped the requested coins into his palm. He gestured dismissively to the dark entrance on the left.

Thankfully I am not a large person. If I were, it would have proved impossible to squeeze myself and my luggage through the tiny passageway. I edged this way and that, stepping around, over and through a junkyard of empty water dispensers, broken buckets and filthy mops. Compared to the stench in here, the aromas of the terminal building now seemed like a fragrance that could be packaged and sold. At least there were cubicles though, even if they were lacking doors. For maximum privacy and comfort I continued to the last stall but recoiled, confused. I retraced a few steps through the clutter, checking the other cubicles, and felt my heart sink into my already churning bowels. Les toilettes did not actually have any toilettes - each stall was equipped with only a hole in the ground, a rusty bucket and a gang of attendant wasps.

However, it was now day 3 of my Tagine Evacuation Mission, therefore there was no time to ponder the various courses of action offered by the hole and the bucket. I moved my luggage back to a place of safety and rapidly relieved myself of several hundred exotic calories. The wasps were joined by a party of unfamiliar scuttling insects, arriving from all directions to investigate the exciting new splatter. I retched, sweating and shivering, as I rummaged through my luggage to find tissues. The empty bucket, caked in what I hoped was rust, was useless without water, so I sloshed the last litre of my drinking water over the cracked ceramic floor towards the hole, and backed out of the stall.

With no sink or running water, hand washing was clearly not included in the two dirhams. The lack of facilities did however allow for a swifter exit. Nothing short of full immersion in a tank of Dettol would make me feel clean now anyway, I thought as I rubbed sanitiser onto my hands and picked my way back through the graveyard of soiled cleaning equipment.

As I emerged into the light I was greeted - or more accurately, accosted - by a different man. Twice the size, twice as dirty and with half the charm of his predecessor, he barred my exit. ‘Excusé moi,’ I said, trying to get past. ‘Cinq dirhams,’ he spat, holding out a shovel-sized hand. ‘Non!’ I cried. ‘I paid already!’ ‘Cinq dirhams,’ he repeated louder, his face now close enough that I could smell his rancid breath. I stared at him long and hard, my gaze boring into his tiny, dark slits of eyes. He was not backing down and, out of the corner of my eye, I could already see passengers boarding the bus for Fes. I sorted through the loose change in my pocket and roughly shoved a five dirham coin into his sweaty hand. He sneered and stepped aside slightly, so I could squeeze past, pressed against his huge filthy bulk.

As I strode towards the waiting coach I reflected that it was probably appropriate that it cost more to leave the toilettes than it cost to enter - the high price of freedom. Suddenly I realised, with a huge sense of regret, that, like every other traveller before me, I too had failed to take a photo of the Chefchaouen Bus Station toilet. Instagram’s vision of Chefchaouen would remain untainted, unspoiled, unblemished. As I sanitised my hands one more time, I wished I could say the same for myself.

Spare Room

Fri, 02 Jun 2023 09:31:44 GMT

As I find myself house hunting once again, I thought I would publish this piece I wrote during my time in London, where house hunting quickly became my main leisure activity.

Written in 2021. Before the national housing stiuation got even worse....

I moved to London in search of new experiences. I have definitely found them...but perhaps I should have been more specific. Thanks to the pandemic, the interesting people, diverse cultures and creative opportunities I excitedly envisaged have all gone into hiding, and/or into administration. However, what I have found is the thrilling new experience of plummeting headfirst to the bottom of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs: life is now filled with the endless excitement of searching in vain for an affordable roof over my head.

In theory it should be easy - London is a huge place with an endless supply of everything. Surely it's possible to find somewhere decent without too much effort? Wrong. Hours, days, weeks, months I've spent buried in the bowels of Spare Room adjusting keywords, filters, setting up alerts, emerging red-eyed, dazed and despondent. If I devoted the same number of hours to a second job I may actually be able to afford somewhere inhabitable (although ironically I'd then only need a brief snooze in one of the ubiquitous beds-with-walls).

Spare Room is like a vast, unchartered parallel universe. A bottomless pit, a swirling vortex of strange people and even stranger properties. Tens of thousands of search results throw up endless options for everything except pleasant, safe, affordable places to live independently. If you're not actually looking for somewhere to live I imagine it could all be quite entertaining.

Although my hours of dedicated study have so far failed to find a decent place to call home, I have at least compiled this guide to the weird, wacky and woefully inadequate places in which Londoners are expected to 'live'.

1. Size Matters

Generally speaking, if you are claustrophobic, London may not be the ideal place for you, given its densely packed buildings and crowded streets. However, in searching for accommodation, claustrophobics are at a distinct disadvantage.

In normal life, the word 'cosy' may conjure up images of snug cottages and roaring fires. Forget that. In London it means you'll have to enter and exit your room by shuffling sideways. And sell all your belongings other than a toothbrush and an inhaler. However, if you're someone who fantasises about using a microwave without actually having to get out of bed, your dreams may be attainable.

Key words and phrases: compact; cosy; kitchenette; the space would ideally suit someone under 5ft; ideal for someone who doesn't have many belongings .

2. (Please) Let There Be Light

As a possible solution to the claustrophobia issue in one place I viewed, my mother suggested I could 'at least open the window now and then for a breath of air'. But even this is not an option in many places. The numerous adverts listing 'own window' as a unique selling point indicate that natural daylight is considered a luxury in London. One advert excitedly explained that 'although the room doesn't have any natural daylight, an overhead light is provided'. Unfortunately electricity was not included in the rent.

Key words and phrases: no natural daylight; ideal for someone who works nights; would suit someone who takes supplements; own light switch .

3. Innovative Solutions

Most of London's traditional Victorian properties have already been carved up into miniscule studios/cells. Therefore, property developers are having to get creative with what else they can semi-legally rent out. This has led to a wonderful selection of converted garages, garden sheds and outhouses flooding the market. Some of these buildings' original purposes are better disguised than others. However, describing a portacabin crammed into a weed-filled garden in Wembley as a 'totally self-contained, private detached house' is fooling no one.

Another favourite is the current trend for 'warehouse conversions'. You may be picturing Manhattan-style loft apartments with exposed bricks and stainless steel. Well these are not those. In London, warehouse conversions are often marketed to 'creatives', because Estate Agents think 'creative' is synonymous with 'squatter'. Luckily for landlords, 'creatives' are not like regular humans and apparently thrive without heating, furniture or privacy.

Key words and phrases: self-contained; detached; innovative use of space; space for your own furniture; ideal for creative types.

4. Welcome To The Family

If independent living options are proving elusive, an alternative is to become a lodger in someone else's home. London is full of wealthy homeowners whose children have flown the nest, creating a potentially ideal space for an impoverished, stray bird. These arrangements vary widely - if you're lucky, such a place can become a home-from-home with a surrogate family. However, many adverts communicate a less than welcoming tone. 'I'm looking for someone who works full time and who's away a lot', or 'ideal for someone who doesn't like to use the kitchen' are thinly veiled euphemisms for 'look - I'm only doing this for the extra cash ok?'

Key words and phrases: limited access to cooking facilities; may use the kitchen at agreed times; ideal for someone who works long hours; short lets preferred.

5. The Awesome Young Professionals

After many weeks on Spare Room, you will probably conclude that it's not possible to live as an independent adult in London. After some harrowing mental gymnastics you will finally accept that you're going to have to share with strangers, much as you did 20+ years ago as a student.

This opens up a whole fresh can of juicy worms. How can you tell if you will get along with your potential flatmates? Luckily, Spare Room makes this easy by describing every potential flatmate in word-for-word blandly identical terms. Everyone on Spare Room is sociable, friendly, enjoys watching Netflix and drinking wine. Everyone is either a 'professional' or a yoga instructor. Happily, only 'awesome young professionals' ever advertise for a new flatmate - the hideously inconsiderate weirdos (that will eventually drive you to seek out a 'totally self-contained, private detached house' in a garden in Wembley) clearly all advertise on other sites.

Key words and phrases: share a bathroom with only 3 others; share a kitchen with only 5 others; we like to have our friends over.

Once you've given in and finally secured a place to live, you can relax. You can sit back on your partially extended sofa bed and eat your microwave meal listening to the TV in the neighbouring room. Or, of course, you can connect to the 'free wifi' and spend your evenings searching Spare Room - surely there must be something better. Maybe if you just adjust the keywords one more time...

People of The Book

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Fri, 06 Jan 2023 12:58:16 GMT

Mixed media portraits of the people of Jerusalem.

Jerusalem - love it or hate it, it's one of the most fascinating and complicated cities on the planet. Fought over for millenia; destroyed, rebuilt, destroyed again. The spiritual home of three major faiths, with religious sites quite literally piled up on top of one another. A place where the histories of many peoples pour out through every crack. Where a treasure trove of Roman, Philistine or Hebrew artifacts is unearthed every time a new car park is built. A city of impossible diversity, intensity and hostility. A city that everyone lays claim to, but no-one can ever fully possess.

Ever since setting foot in Jerusalem 8 years ago, I have been obsessed with the city. The blood-soaked layers of history, and explosive cocktail of cultures and faiths has long captured my imagination and continues to inspire my artwork. Much of my work in the 'Pieces From A Broken Land' series focused on the place itself. However, this time I wanted to focus on the people and on the everyday scenes I encountered during my time in the city.

I wanted to express how the city in all its complexity is woven into the lives of its people. Collage in layers of overlapping sandy shades forms the backdrop to each scene, hinting at the city's patchwork of cultures and layers of history as well as the appearance of the beautiful Jerusalem stone. Fragments from a text in English appear throughout, with the words 'God' and 'faith' recurring, alongside scraps of Arabic and Hebrew writing reflecting the culture and language of each subject. The people themselves (3 portraits of Muslims and 3 of Jews) almost merge into the background, with the collage textures visible through the human forms.

The message of the pie ces is, to some extent, open to interpretation. What is undeniable however, is the strength of feeling that all Jerusalem's inhabitants - whether Muslim, Jewish or Christian (all 'People of the Book') - have for their city. This shared love is suggested through the unifying style between all the pieces. Perhaps the colour palette and common style also suggests shared heritage and shared elements of faith. However, any suggestions of harmony in the city are merely a vision of an ideal world. In reality - especially given the country's new, hard-right wing government - this vision of peace is perhaps further away than ever..

'Long Division' Exhibition

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Tue, 27 Sep 2022 14:38:49 GMT

World Peace Day exhibition at the Bosnian Embassy with Most Mira.

Since 1981, 21st September has been recognised as the UN-sanctioned 'World Peace Day' - an opportunity to pause and refocus on efforts to build peace around the world.

This year, Bosnian/UK peacebuilding charity Most Mira (of which I am a trustee) hosted an event with the Embassy of Bosnia and Herzegovina in London . As part of this event, I presented an exhibition of paintings which explore the situation of young people growing up in modern-day Bosnia. Entitled 'Long Division', the artwork's message very much sets the scene and makes the case for Most Mira's ongoing work in the Prijedor region of Bosnia.

About Most Mira

Most Mira (which means 'Bridge of Peace') is a registered charity in the UK and Bosnia and Herzegovina. The organisation was established in 2008 by Kemal Pervanic, a survivor of the notorious Omarska and Manjaca concentration camps. For the past 14 years, Most Mira has worked to bring children and young people together to learn new skills, make friends across ethnicities, and celebrate diversity in north west Bosnia - crucial foundations to help build a peaceful and sustainable future in the region.

Since 2008, Most Mira have presented an exciting range of youth arts festivals, theatre workshops, peace building courses and architectural workshops. The charity's current aim is to grow and diversify the range of creative activities for young people and to establish a permanent Peace Centre hub in Kevljani village near Prijedor. The award-winning design for the Peace Centre, by Projekt V Architecture, will transform a war-ruined house into a vibrant public facility for cultural and reconciliation activities.

World Peace Day Event

Bosnian Ambassador Vanja Filipovic welcomed a buzzing audience of invited guests into the splendour of the Embassy of Bosnia and Herzegovina in Kensington. Formerly the Yugoslavian Embassy, the building's wood panelling and retro chandeliers are reminiscent of 1950s cruise-ship glamour. Vintage jazz and waiters circulating with platters of fine canapés added to the atmosphere as did the stimulating mix of guests including members of the UK Bosnian community, representatives of charitable foundations, academics and government agencies. I even to got to wear my most elaborate necklace.

However, we were not merely there for a party. As 3 members of the Most Mira board took to the floor, a hush descended on the assembled crowd. Kenneth Morrison, Professor of History and Chair in Modern South East European History, at De Montfort University Leicester gave a passionate introduction to Most Mira and his extensive involvement in the Balkan region. He was followed by John Clark, Chief Pathologist for the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia who spoke movingly and personally of several individuals whose stories really hammered home the human costs of the Balkan conflict. And finally, Most Mira's founder, Kemal Pervanic, talked about intergenerational trauma - an issue which resonated with many young participants in Most Mira's Project on Peacebuilding this summer, and something Kemal has personally experienced throughout this life.

Although the physical exhibition is now over, you can still view the artwork and learn about the situation for young people in Bosnia and Herzegovina here: www.hipsterspinster.co.uk/exhibition . All proceeds from the sale of original paintings and prints go towards the work of Most Mira and to helping build a peaceful future for the next generation in Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Return

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Sun, 18 Sep 2022 10:11:06 GMT

Poem exploring my experience of returning to my native Aberdeen for a year in 2021.

I returned in battered boxes,

Wrapped in ‘fragile’ tape,

A roadmap of fine lines

Etched around sleepless eyes.

Shackled by chains of Post Office redirects,

Each address another cryptic clue

In a futile treasure hunt.

I returned to a place I no longer knew,

A city scarred and changed,

A tattered patchwork of ‘To Let’ signs

Abandoned to sighs and shadows.

I drifted like tumbleweed down subdued streets,

Imprisoned between unfamiliar worlds,

Until someone called me by my childhood name

And my walls came tumbling down.

In a single greeting, I found my long-lost self,

In a single turn of phrase, I found home.

Roads were repaved with memories,

Scattered like summer blossom.

With echoes of everything that shaped me,

With the ache of long ago laughter and pain,

I am rerooted in native soil,

Buffeted by salt and light.

Soundbath

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Tue, 29 Mar 2022 16:23:46 GMT

Site-specific performance in Aberdeen's iconic Bon Accord Baths.

I was having a coffee with Coralie Usmani, who was telling me about her exciting new job as CEO of Jazz Scotland and Producer of Aberdeen Jazz Festival. 'I've had this crazy idea,' she said. 'I'm thinking of using the Bon Accord Baths as a concert venue.'

Bon Accord Baths

Opened in 1940, the Baths were a leisure landmark in Aberdeen. As well as its iconic, light-drenched pool, the Art Deco complex also housed Turkish baths and public baths for tenement residents who lacked bathing facilities at home. But due to council budget cuts, the Baths closed their doors in 2008 and sadly they have now stood abandoned for over a decade. However, recent years have seen a surge in calls for the building's restoration. The development of the 'Save Bon Accord Baths' campaign and 'Bon Accord Heritage' charity have inspired a number of initiatives highlighting the huge potential of this beautiful space.

Soundbath

'So what do you think? Are you up for it?' Coralie asked. 'Me??' Yikes. It has been several years since I've performed (2016!) so I was flattered to be asked, and also slightly terrified. The brief was to compose and perform a new piece which would showcase and work with the pool's stunning acoustics. After a brief moment's consideration I jumped at the chance. A second commission would also be performed by the wonderful Mikey Owers from the band Young Pilgrims on trumpet, trombone and sousaphone, providing a great tonal contrast.

Inspirations , Preparations

In every sense, this was no ordinary gig. Preparations included several visits to the pool to test out the acoustics and find inspiration for what I might write. Entering the pool for the first time I was struck by several things: the sheer size of the space; the bone-chilling temperature of the long-unheated building; its dilapidated state with peeling paint, grafitti and rubble; and then the soaring, sublime resonance that filled the chilly air as soon as I played my first note. I left feeling a complex mixture of awe, amazement, sadness and frustration at how this incredible building, so full of memories, had been allowed to fall into such disrepair.

The following weeks were spent trying to reimagine the pool's sonorous acoustics whilst composing in the confines of my tiny flat. What sounded good in my living room would likely not work in the pool and vice-versa - quite a mind-bending challenge! In my writing I wanted to capture the bittersweet feelings I had experienced on my first visit to the Baths. In the end I built the composition around two short phrases - one major, one minor. The two phrases return throughout the piece in different contexts, at times happy and hopeful, at others mournful or haunting. The recurrence of these phrases also aimed to imitate 'echoes' alongside the actual echoes created by the amazing acoustic. Considerable time was also spent researching and frantically ordering heated vests and hand-warmers in preparation for performing in the unheated pool!

Showtime

Alongside Mikey's composition '3ft Deep and Descending', I gave 5 performances of 'Echoes of Brighter Days' to a packed and quite emotional audience. With hundreds of tickets snapped up within hours of being released, people's passion for stepping inside the Baths once again was clear. I think providing a musical setting added to the emotional experience of revisiting this place that's filled with memories for so many Aberdonians. In the current climate, the performances seemed quite symbolic, reaching beyond mere entertainment. It felt like we may have helped reaffirm several important messages: that we need to look after, value and fight for our public spaces; that we must rediscover ways of putting people before profit; and that hopefully brighter days - in every sense - will come again.

I hope to be able to post a full video of the performance in time, but until then, click below for a short snippet:

https://fb.watch/c2T6QRIXVE/

Main photo credit: Alastair Robb

Inside Story

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Fri, 28 Jan 2022 11:25:37 GMT

The power of personal storytelling and its role in my work with Safe Harbour Open Sea.

Originally published on Open Road's website: https://www.openroadltd.com/2022/01/inside-story/.

‘Share your story’ is the message I’ve been repeatedly trumpeting across Fittie and beyond in various forms for the past 6 months. My role in the Safe Harbour Open Sea project is based around themes of ‘visitors and migration’ and has so far involved gathering the stories, experiences and views of as many different people as possible to inform my creative projects.

After a fascinating and rewarding period of research, I am now surrounded by folders of audio recordings, collections of postcards, and reams of answers to online questionnaires, all forming tiny windows into other people’s lives and perspectives. But although this process has been rewarding for me, I believe - and hope - it can also offer real benefits to the individual contributors and the community as a whole.

The role and benefit of storytelling was a strong and recurring feature in my studies on Reconciliation and Peacebuilding. In conflict situations, where people have experienced injustice or trauma, often the simple act of telling your personal story, of letting the truth be heard, can be hugely cathartic for survivors. I was greatly moved by case studies from South Africa’s Truth Commission and ways that survivors’ testimonies have been used within numerous memorial projects in Chile. These have helped to restore victims’ silenced voices and with it, their agency and dignity. Although Fittie is by no means a war zone, I believe similar principles apply.

It may not be a conflict zone, but Fittie has experienced huge changes and a certain amount of destabilisation over the past few decades. Due to the rise of the oil industry and the resulting movement of people, this has fragmented and changed the character of the community, which is now very different from the group of extended fishing families that it was originally. Although the community is still close-knit by modern urban standards, change, and attitudes towards change, definitely have an impact on both longstanding and more recent residents.

Within this context, I feel it is important to give people the chance to reflect and honestly express their feelings and perspective. I think it’s important that people feel listened to and respected, and that their stories and views are valued. For many of the older contributors, they have said they found the experience of talking about their relatives, ancestors and memories was very therapeutic. With generations passing away and some contributors’ childhood homes in the St Clement St area now demolished, creating a lasting testament to these vanished lives honours and elevates their experiences and simply communicates ‘this matters’.

However, I think this idea of recognising and valuing people’s stories applies to younger and more recent residents too. In a place where so much history and heritage is entwined with particular families, it can perhaps be hard to find your place and feel like you belong. Recording the stories of more recent arrivals to Fittie and documenting their connection to the village also signifies that they matter and that they are now part of the community, with an important part to play in Fittie’s ongoing story.

As I now begin the arduous but exciting task of compiling the collected materials into various creative outcomes, I am surprised anew by the variety and richness of people’s stories. I feel like I’m weaving a huge, beautiful tapestry from very fine materials. When my work is complete I hope it will form a diverse, colourful and meaningful representation of the changes, challenges and joys of living in this unique community.

Mirage Q & A

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Mon, 29 Nov 2021 11:14:08 GMT

Some questions and answers about new book 'Mirage'.

I'm very happy to announce the publication of my new book 'Mirage'!

After a series of small launch events, I thought I'd post some of the questions and answers from our discussions. If you have any other questions please drop me a message!

Tell us in one sentence what the book is about.
This is the story of two months I spent in the summer of 2019 working (or at least trying to work) in the Bedouin city of Rahat in the Negev region of Israel.

Can you give us some context about the location and the Bedouin people?
Bedouin is the plural of Bedu which literally just means 'desert dweller'. The Bedouin have lived nomadic or semi-nomadic lives across the middle east for more than 4000 years. But over the past century, their nomadic existence has been severely restricted in many parts of the middle east. In some cases the Bedouin have chosen to settle and adopt certain aspects of ‘modern’ life, but in others the change has been imposed by political states.

I would say Israel is a clear example of the latter. In the early years of the State of Israel, the government had a clear vision of the Bedouin’s future which involved turning them from a nomadic society into an urban one. To make this vision a reality, the government built seven towns in the 1970s to house the Bedouin population. Rahat, where I was, is the largest of these and is considered a city with a population of around 70,000. It sits on the northern edge of the Negev desert, around 10 miles from the city of Be'er Sheva.

How have these changes and the transition to settled life affected the Bedouin?
The residents of Rahat have lived through, and are continuing to live through, huge, huge changes to their society. These are changes that have really shaken the foundations of their society and culture, and have driven a wedge between generations who have completely different life experiences and values.

It's a particularly difficult situation for the youngsters - they're torn in different directions with their families’ expectations often clashing with those of the education system and whatever comes through their smartphones. Their situation was described to me by a local youth worker as a full blown youth identity crisis - he said 'they don't know who they are or who they're supposed to be’.

On top of all that, the Bedouin communities are the poorest in Israel with high unemployment, low educational achievement and high levels of crime and violence. They also still have one of the highest birthrates in the world. So all in all, it's a very complex and difficult picture. And of course, this was all before Covid came along...

So tell us about the reasons for your trip and the project you hoped to implement. What were your aims when you set off?

Unfortunately, I’ve always loved difficult, complicated things. And this situation, particularly the issues facing the younger generation, was something that really captured both my head and my heart. So I decided to focus on this for my final project as part of my Masters degree.

I was going to work with a local youth organisation for six weeks to run a series of workshops about storytelling. I was going to get the youngsters to interview their grandparents about their nomadic way of life and collect traditional stories - part of their oral heritage which is fading fast. I hoped it would help connect the generations a little and encourage the youngsters to discover more about their own heritage.

So yes, I set off with a beautiful Theory of Change diagram and some wonderful Powerpoint presentations, and everyone at the University and the youth organisation all sounded very enthusiastic...

So things didn’t go as planned.. It’s quite rare to hear stories of things that failed - what convinced you that this was still a story worth telling?

I remember at the time saying 'well I don't think I'll be writing a book about this one.' But.. surprise!

Thankfully, I was reassured by my supervisor that this was not an unusual outcome for projects of this nature. However, that led me to think 'well, in all my research and preparation, why have I only ever read about the ones that went well?' Therefore, I thought that it was important to write about this unsuccessful experience - both for reasons of personal therapy and to show the reality of how difficult it can be to do things like this.

I think in a wider context it’s also an important act to tell stories of disappointment and frustration. So often, in a world increasingly shaped by social media, we only hear one-dimensional stories of people living consistently successful, happy lives which is totally unrealistic. So I guess part of my motivation for writing was to try to rebalance this unhealthy and damaging trend.

The book includes illustrated proverbs throughout, which kind of comment on the narrative. The proverb 'we learn little from success, but much from failure' perhaps sums up your whole experience in Rahat. So what would you say you learned from the experience?

Like most difficult experiences, I came away with many quite profound lessons.

Firstly, I learned that when you’re working with communities, who you are - or who you’re perceived to be - matters. I had been so focused on the Bedouin and learning about their situation that I’d forgotten about myself and how I would come across to the youngsters. To them I represented the Western world, global travel, female independence etc, but I was urging the youngsters not to be seduced by all these things and to embrace their own heritage and culture - something that I am not a part of! So the message and the messenger were mismatched which created some confusion about why I was there.

Another thing that has emerged over a longer period of reflection is a greater understanding of what it means to live through huge change. I arrived in Rahat so fascinated by all the complexity surrounding these changes in a sort of intellectual way, but I was disappointed to find that no-one there really seemed to share my interest. There felt like a huge weight of apathy all around me in Rahat. But with reflection, I see that ‘apathy’ quite differently now. I think, given what’s happened to all of us over the past year or so, we can all understand what it actually feels like to live through huge societal changes and disruption. And of course, what we have experienced is minimal compared with the situation in Rahat over the last 50 years, so I can definitely understand the sheer exhaustion and weariness of just living day to day surrounded by so much turbulence.

And finally, I guess I learned that success comes in many forms. It would have been nice to return home feeling that I had made a visible difference to the Bedouin situation, but I guess I learned many valuable personal lessons. Things like dealing with frustration, disappointment and accepting things beyond my control are all lessons that I can apply to future work as well as in my personal life…and of course, a book has emerged from the experience! The act of turning an experience of failure into a creative project that I'm proud of and can share with others definitely feels like success.

Read more about Mirage and buy your copy here!

Bedouin Proverbs

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Sun, 28 Feb 2021 13:13:44 GMT

Illustrated Bedouin proverbs - ancient wisdom for modern times.

I am working on another epic project - a book telling the story of my 2019 adventures in the Bedouin city of Rahat in the Negev desert.

However, if you know me, you'll know that simply writing a book is far too straightforward a task. Therefore, the narrative is interspersed with research, snippets of conversations, photos and a series of illustrated traditional Bedouin proverbs.

Bedouin Proverbs

Much of Bedouin culture centres around oral traditions. Historically, proverbs and stories were used to transmit essential wisdom and values to the next generation. However, with the rapid transformations in Bedouin society, which have turned the formerly nomadic tribes into a settled, urban society, many of these ancient proverbs have been lost.

Very few Bedouin people I met were familiar with such proverbs. However, thanks to the work of Clinton Bailey - reknowned scholar and expert on Bedouin culture - 1350 proverbs have been collected, transcribed and preserved for future generations (and other enthusaists like me).

Although some of the proverbs relate to very specific cultural practices, I was amazed at how many seem deeply relevant to humans anywhere, in any age. As Clinton Bailey himself says: "in understanding Bedouin culture... you understand human nature, how people adjust to living under very difficult circumstances."

Illustrations

So far I have illustrated around 20 of these proverbs, drawing my visual inspiration from the gritty textures and colours of the desert.

However, I also wanted to give the illustrations a contemporary feel to highlight the sayings' relevance to modern life. With this in mind, I chose the distressed style font 'Cracked'. By using irregular kerning and spacing I also tried to capture their down-to-earth, gritty, spoken nature.

I hope you enjoy this brief preview. If you'd like to see the full collection.....you can buy the book here.

Grey Days

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Wed, 20 Jan 2021 12:44:09 GMT

Creative writing attempting to capture the feeling of the third lockdown.

There is no weather today. A blank greyness hangs over everything, muting colours and deadening thoughts. It isn't quite raining, nor is it dry. It is probably Tuesday or possibly Wednesday - such words have lost their meaning and purpose. The street is empty but for the sluggish sentries of blue recycling bins choked with Amazon packaging. The only sign of life is a lone fluorescent-clad jogger, frantically pounding and puffing down the pavement, trying to outrun his own soul.

It is hard to settle, hard to concentrate, hard to relax. All contrasts have been ironed out, reducing life to an endless, shapeless, fuzzy blur. I go through the motions anyway - eating breakfast, showering, eating lunch, walking aimlessly up and down random streets - keeping up the pretence. Rehearsing for a future life that seems like nothing more than a fanciful dream.

But all the drama that has been sucked out of everyday life is siphoned into the media where heightened horror stories fight for space. Constant updates, newsflashes and hyperbole assault us from multiple flickering screens that never sleep: threats to life, political collapse, economic ruin, all illustrated by a swirling circus of bewildering graphs and statistics. We all look on, detached and helpless, the word 'unprecedented' starting to sound strange from being repeated too many times. The warnings and hysteria now merely compound the numbness - like heaping more snow upon the rock hard, frozen ground.

So what can we do? No one has many meaningful answers. Not even the glut of overnight 'virtual wellbeing experts', who are slowly growing listless counting their questionable cash in their designer pyjama bottoms. I try to dream of better days, but I daren't look too far ahead - all too soon I become tangled up in complicated knots of what-ifs and hows and wheres. So I look back. I turn off the screens and turn my gaze to the past. To old photos, old songs and another time. For an hour or so I lose myself beneath a comforting, colourful blanket of memories - faraway places, faraway people, laughter, stories and vivid feelings. I don't know when or if or what I will add to this rich patchwork. But, for now, nostalgia thaws the numbness in my spirit a little. It is enough.

Portraits of Peckham

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Sun, 17 Jan 2021 16:32:04 GMT

Gritty illustrations capturing Peckham in lockdown

For the past 6 months I have been living in Peckham in south east London. Due to the ongoing lockdowns it has been difficult to get properly involved or embedded in the local community, however I have been a passionate observer of the debates and divisions in the area. This recent series of illustrations aims to capture the feeling of the area during the national lockdown.

Background

Peckham has gone through huge changes in its history - from a small, peaceful village centred around Peckham Rye park in the 1800s, to a heavily developed urban environment from the 1960s onward. For many years it was one of the most deprived residential areas in Western Europe with high levels of unemployment, crime and gang activity.

It is also one of the most ethnically diverse areas of the UK. As well as the white working class residents famed by the series Only Fools And Horses, Peckham is home to large Nigerian and Afro Caribbean communities. Other residents originate from Bangladesh, India, Pakistan, Afghanistan and Indonesia.

A Tale of Two Worlds

Currently, like many areas of London, Peckham is experiencing a steady tide of 'gentrification'. In recent years, the area has seen a huge influx of young, middle class, largely white families. This has created two very different worlds which awkwardly exist side by side.

One minute you can be surrounded by the sounds and smells of Caribbean food stalls, black teenagers on BMX bikes and small, unnamed shops selling everything from buckets to Afro hair products. Then, as soon as you leave Rye Lane, you cross an invisible border. Suddenly the streets are lined with yoga studios, upmarket wine bars and middle class mothers pushing expensive pushcairs as they sip soy milk lattés.

I have felt conflicted about the area whilst living here. Some say the newer, wealthy residents of Peckham will 'improve' the area and bring jobs and opportunities. However, as the area becomes gentrified, house prices and commercial rents will inevitably rise, forcing those with lower incomes out of the area. And where will they go? London is rapidly becoming a city exclusively for the rich.

The lockdown(s) may have accelerated this trend. Rye Lane is already plastered with 'To Let' signs as small shops are forced to permanently close, whilst many businesses in the more affluent parts have simply switched to 'Click and Collect' via their shiny new websites.

Illustrations

Before I leave Peckham I wanted to capture this bleak moment in time and this place that seems on the brink of huge change.

Old packaging and printed signage form the images' collage background, over which acrylic paint, oil pastel and ink add distressed layers. Shuttered shops, grafittied alleys, a jumble of 'To Let' signs and urban decay create the backdrop to lone figures shuffling along deserted streets, still surviving, still clinging on.

Although the images are heavy with despair, I hope they also convey a certain beauty and hint at the tenacity and strength of the human spirit which somehow prevails against all odds. I hope and pray that the unique character and spirit of Peckham will survive the current economic challenges and the strong tide of gentrification. Time will tell...

Nomad

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Sun, 25 Oct 2020 12:28:49 GMT

Inspiration and ideas behind a new project exploring nomadic cultures.

As someone who values freedom above security, I have long been fascinated - some might say obsessed - by nomadic cultures. Perhaps I have an overly romanticised view, or a simplistic understanding, but many of the core values of nomadic life seem to offer timely wisdom in our frantic, fragmented, materialistic world.

The current pandemic has, of course, severely tested ideas of freedom and security, leading many of us to reassess our attitudes, assumptions and fundamental values. Societal cohesion, community, and our relationship with the natural world have all been thrust into the spotlight, exposing some ugly truths. But as we blunder on in a similar fashion, discarding our single-use facemasks and precariously pinning all our hopes on various apps, are we just sticking plasters over gaping, festering wounds?

Literary Inspiration

I recently read Wilfred Thesiger's Arabian Sands - the author's account of travelling through the Arabian 'Empty Quarter' between 1945 and 1950. Travelling with a group of nomadic Bedouin companions, many of the author's observations leapt off the page as lessons that we in the 'civilised' West may be wise to consider.

Firstly, the unforgiving desert demands respect from all who live there. It's simple and stark: respect the land or die. As our lives become artificially distanced from the natural world, this is a truth that is dangerously easy to ignore.

Secondly, within this hostile environment, the Bedouin's key to personal survival may sound paradoxical to our ears: generosity. Guests and strangers always take priority, receiving food and drink even if the hosts must go hungry to provide it. This generosity is reciprocated in turn - everyone will be a 'stranger' some time and will equally be assured of receiving sustenance at another's tent. This seems a great leveller and a reminder that our experiences and needs are inextricably intertwined. Against the current backdrop of controversy surrounding free school meals for children from struggling families, this concept speaks for itself.

Thirdly, the author came to recognise that the hardship of his companions' lives - their poverty, frequent hunger, thirst and total lack of material possessions - was actually their strength. ' Some people maintain that they will be better off when they have exchanged the hardship and poverty of the desert for the security of the materialistic world. This I do not believe. I knew that for them the danger lay, not in the hardship of their lives, but in the boredom and frustration they would feel when they renounced it.' The nomads themselves repeatedly declare: 'Only in the desert can a man find freedom.' I wonder how different our lives and society would be without the constant focus on acquiring and accumulating possessions and pursuing our own comfort.

Portraits

To explore and celebrate the richness of vanishing nomadic cultures, I have started a series of portraits. My initial focus is on the Wodaabe people of Niger/Mali , known for their elaborate costumes and jewellery. Each subject holds a steady gaze, challenging us to look them in the eye, see them, and see their cultures' enduring value in a turbulent, chaotic world.

Follow me on Instagram to see how the series develops...

Red Ribbon Inspired

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Tue, 15 Sep 2020 09:42:46 GMT

Shortlisted artwork for the National Aids Trust's 'Be Red Ribbon Inspired' competition

The above artwork was recently shortlisted in the National Aids Trust's 'Be Red Ribbon Inspired' competition. As one of five finalists I enjoyed meeting Sir Anthony Gormley, Sandy Nairn and Chief Executive of the NAT Deborah Gold.

The competition brief was to reinterpret the charity's iconic red ribbon in a way that reflects the National Aids Trust's work.

The Message

My artwork aimed to communicate three main messages. Firstly, as the NAT is a growing charity, always responding to changing opportunities and challenges, I chose a living, growing rose. The buds on the stems hint at a bright future by suggesting the 'flowering' of future work.

Secondly, I wanted to convey a message of hope. I aimed to suggest this through the idea of beautiful roses blooming from thorny stems - a metaphor for how the charity's work makes difficult lives a little easier.

And thirdly, I aimed to create an impression of care and compassion. I entwined the two roses to suggest an embrace, reflecting that thanks to the NAT, those living with HIV are supported, cared for and never alone.

The Medium

The artwork was painted in acrylic on paper and Photoshop was used to create the final design.

The winning entries can be seen here: https://www.nat.org.uk/art

From Above - Aerial Art

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Wed, 12 Aug 2020 19:01:16 GMT

A series of semi-abstract artworks based on aerial views of London and Nablus.

I love flying over cities. I love seeing the familiar elements of buildings and roads transformed into unexpected abstract patterns.

Viewing a city from above also allows you to understand something of its character, culture and history. The tightly packed grid of fast-paced Manhattan, the crowded collision of old and new in the City of London, and the higgledy-piggledy rooftop chaos of cities in the Middle East all hint at how such places have evolved over time in response to their inhabitants' needs and priorities.

London

The first part of this series features mixed media aerial interpretations of London. Many of London's buildings look like they have been carefully considered from all angles - including from above. The colour scheme was inspired by the endless cold, damp winter months. Look out for the Thames river boats and distinctive red London buses.

Nablus

In the second part I focused on Nablus - a Palestinian city I visited weekly whilst living in the West Bank - and who's layout I never quite grasped..

Note the change of colour scheme - here I painted on old cardboard boxes to give the images a warmer, sandy tone and a beat-up quality. The shapes are a lot less formal and orderly than in London - town planning is very different in the Middle East!

Some building shapes have been glued then ripped off to mimic the brutal policy of home demolition which often occurs in response to individual aggressive acts against Israel. Also look out for the water tanks that litter the roofs, and the domes of many mosques.

Unmasked - 'Location Unknown'

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Fri, 31 Jul 2020 12:52:54 GMT

Continuing Unmasked - a creative writing series exploring different aspects of identity.

Ever since living in the Palestinian West Bank I have been interested in unrecognised and disputed territories. I remember the strange feeling as my GPS gave up and simply told me my location was 'unknown'. I felt disconcerted, but also experienced a certain thrill like I'd somehow stepped through the wardrobe into Narnia.

According to Max Galka's comprehensive interactive map , there are 105 disputed territories in the world. Although many of these regions, such as Kosovo, conjure up images of violent conflict, many other unrecognised areas exist peacefully.

I am interested in the effect that living outside a recognised political state has on inhabitants' identity. Nationality often plays a huge part in developing our sense of self - what happens when this key pillar of identity is weakened or fragmented? A second interesting aspect is the mismatch between cartographers' and political leaders' attempts to divide the world into neatly defined political states, and the messy complexity of reality. As with other elements of identity, where you come from is not always neatly explained.

In the piece of writing below I have tried to capture the feeling of being in an unrecognised territory, based on research, imagination and my own experience.

Location Unknown

I could pick out at least 3 different languages amongst the strange patchwork of conversation. Sometimes they switched even within the same sentence. Shop signs followed suit with a variety of scripts and within they accepted several different currencies in exchange for the minimal goods on display. Even the names of the towns varied depending who you were speaking to - old names, new names, unofficial names, hybrid names, revealing layer upon layer of history and change like peeling wallpaper. But this history was largely absent from the pages of history books, and the colourful place names were absent from maps. All that appeared was a small grey shaded area marked 'disputed territory', crisscrossed with dotted lines as if the perforations could be torn along and detached at any moment. There was no flag, no passport, no parliament, and my GPS simply said 'location unknown'. On paper, and in the eyes of the world, it was a place that did not exist.

How strange then, to be standing here, breathing in the scents and sounds in the gentle breeze. To be in a place beyond the reach of measurement and categorisation, that existed almost outside of time. With an uncertain future, and the scars of the past too raw to remember, the place hovered in a suspended present. It felt dream-like, as if I had discovered a secret door to a parallel universe. The reactions of the locals to their situation were as diverse as the language - some desperately sought the security of a state and immersed themselves in grand, passionate campaigns for political sovereignty and international recognition. Others seemed content to ground themselves in mundane day-to-day reality, simply living and savouring the small beauties of being, with little concern for abstract arguments of grids and systems and borders.

But still these issues hung over their daily lives in an invisible haze. Straightforward questions no longer had straightforward answers - 'what is your nationality?' 'where do you come from?' 'where do you live?' Within most people's lifetime the official answers to these questions had changed several times like shifting sands beneath their feet. But in a world where so many people bind their identity to a flag, a passport, and the firmly drawn borders of a political state, here there was something that almost felt like freedom. In a strange paradox, as definitions became increasingly laden with asterisks and complexity, they simultaneously released their rigid grip on people. Here, they had long ago given up attempting to pin precise labels on anyone or anything.

As I listened to the diverse medley of languages and laughter it seemed that each jumbled sentence was declaring 'life is complex. Who ever said that it wasn't?' Despite being surrounded by, at the very least, a triple language barrier, I was surprised to realise that in this place - unnamed, unmarked, and undefined - I felt strangely at home.

Unmasked - 'A Name'

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Thu, 30 Jul 2020 12:51:34 GMT

Continuing Unmasked - a creative writing series exploring different aspects of identity.

One aspect of identity that holds huge fascination for me is our obsession with naming every nuance of human experience. I remain undecided whether this is helpful in knowing and understanding yourself and others better, or if it limits the vast and complex world of each unique individual.

I accept that we need language to describe our inner world, but too often I find that the specific words available are laden with unhelpful connotations and can have very different meanings for different people. To put a definitive name on certain aspects of our being also seems to create rigidity where there should be fluidity, nuance and a certain ebb and flow. It's like creating a statue of a dancer.

In some ways I think this is a battle between scientific and artistic mindsets - the need for conclusion and diagnosis vs. the need for open-ended freedom and creative possibility. Anyway, this poem explores this idea.

A Name

I learned your name, after living with you for a lifetime.
It changed everything but changed nothing,
Rendering you as old friend and stranger
Simultaneously.

For years I wandered in your misty twilight,
Heavy with clouded possibilities, multiple meanings, open-ended questions,.
Like an impressionist painting that changes with the light.

But now the mist has burned off and clarity emerges,
Hurting my eyes with its glaring strip-light of definition.
The warm, fluid, womb-like shapes of anonymity I dwelt within
Are suddenly cast in stone, fixed and hard and narrow.

Nothing has changed, but everything has changed.
I cannot unhear, unsee, unknow this once unfamiliar word.
While some find comfort in clarity, consolation in classification,
And welcome a convenient name to coolly toss into casual conversations,
I am left lamenting.

I mourn the death of ambiguity.
The loss of everything...
And nothing.

Unmasked - 'Grandmother'

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Wed, 29 Jul 2020 13:30:27 GMT

Unmasked - a creative writing series exploring different aspects of identity.

The concept of identity has fascinated me on a personal and intellectual level for a long time. The rise of individualism and globalisation over recent decades has disrupted and fragmented many long held markers of identity. As we move to different places and are exposed to different cultures, worldviews and possibilities, our identities are perhaps less static and inevitable than in previous generations.

With this comes a certain sense of freedom and the possibility of 're-inventing' ourselves. However, as we shake off old identities like a snake shedding its skin, do we also lose something? Can we really re-invent ourselves? Are the 'old' labels limiting or do they provide a secure, comforting framework? Do external labels alter how we view ourselves? These are some of the questions I have been pondering.

The following series of posts will share some of my creative writing in response to these issues. To begin, I go back to my humble roots and consider the all important question 'what would my Grandmother make of all this?'

Grandmother

My grandmother did not wrestle with self-doubt,
She wrestled with a mangle for 7 hours every Monday.
She did not struggle for the precise words to define herself,
She struggled with buckets of water from the well.

She did not strive to erase societal labels,
She strived to erase dirt from the floor with a scrubbing brush.
She did not wake suddenly at 5am pondering the meaning of life,
She woke routinely at 5am to light the fire and make the porridge.

She was not paralysed with existential angst,
She was too busy fetching and carrying for her paralysed mother-in-law.
She did not cut and paste self-conscious life philosophies,
She cut up chunks of firewood with an axe.

She did not obsessively unpick the threads of her identity,
She wove them seamlessly through the coarsely textured fabric of her days.
Her life was not ethereally shaped like a question mark, forever asking 'who am I?'
Her life formed the solid, satisfying shape of an answer.

Interview - Just Off Church Street

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Sat, 04 Jul 2020 11:28:23 GMT

Interview by Jennie Buckley from the Cockpit Theatre

Click on the image below to see my interview (1st July 2020) with Jennie Buckley for the Cockpit Theatre's online channel Just Off Church Street. In only 15 minutes, we manage to cover growing up in the middle of nowhere, my Church Street art project, artistic life under lockdown and future projects!

https://vimeo.com/432861280/32e4a76009

Lucinda Rogers - Inspirations

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Sun, 21 Jun 2020 12:31:56 GMT

Lucinda Rogers 'On Gentrification' - artistic, intellectual and social inspiration.

A few years ago I took a rare holiday to London to satisfy my cultural cravings. One of the highlights of that trip was seeing Lucinda Rogers' 'On Gentrification' exhibition at the House of Illustration. Her work continues to inspire me artistically, intellectually and socially, and has instilled in me a love of marketplaces and their small scenes of everyday life. Although somewhat different in style, her work was a key inspiration for my Church Street project.

Lucinda Rogers - On Gentrification

Lucinda Rogers is an artist and illustrator based in London. She works directly from life using art as a form of reportage. Her exhibition 'On Gentrification' documented Ridley Road Market in Dalston, East London - an area, like many in London, which is changing rapidly and increasingly under threat from gentrification.

Artistic Inspiration

Although Lucinda's style differs from my own, I admire several aspects of her drawings. I love the way her work manages to be both accurately detailed and loosely free - a result of her method of drawing spontaneously on location. I think this juxtaposition really effectively evokes the atmosphere of the market with the endless busy displays of wares to browse and the constant ebb and flow of human life.

I also like how she emphasises certain elements by a simple thickening of the line or a splash of colour. The fact that she doesn't always emphasise the objects you'd expect to be the focus of a scene adds to the spontaneous feeling of a fleeting moment in time.

Intellectual Inspiration

However, these are not just pleasing pictures - they are underpinned by compassion, concern and a strong social message. As such, the work really encouraged me to think more about artists' role and importance in society.

Speaking of her role as artist-as-reporter Lucinda says 'recording what is there is simply to put a marker down and say these places are important. If there is no record of something, it is easier to sweep it away.’

Artists have the power to draw people's attention to things that may normally go unnoticed in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. By simply taking the time to focus and turning a subject into a piece of art, we elevate those subjects and encourage others to notice and value them - something I feel has huge potential and power.

Social Inspiration

As a demonstration of this power, since visiting On Gentrification I have been much more aware of the issues explored in the exhibition. Our cities seem to be rapidly becoming the playgrounds of property developers whose priority is profit rather than people.

As developments of luxury apartment blocks encroach on Ridley Road, the market - which has been trading for over 90 years and currently has 180 stalls serving the diverse, working class local community - is becoming increasingly threatened. As gentrification leads to rising house prices in the area, many local residents may be forced to move.

While some claim gentrification is simply 'progress', it is undeniably changing the fabric of life in our cities. But I would argue that more is being lost than gained through these changes. Luxury apartment blocks offer nothing more than housing for a small, wealthy elite, whereas areas such as the markets of Ridley Road - and Church Street - offer so much more. Commenting on the short-sightedness of gentrification, Lucinda says 'without these places, city life will be more and more solitary and unnatural, which is not good for people’s health or the health of a city as a whole.’

These reflections sparked by Lucinda Rogers' work continually inspire me to support, value and celebrate the places that preserve and nurture humanity in our cities. I hope by turning some of these scenes into pieces of art I can encourage others to see, pause, and reflect.

All quotations are from an interview with the Association of Illustrators. The original article can be found here: https://theaoi.com/2017/11/08/lucinda-rogers-on-gentrification/

Church Street - Creative Writing

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Fri, 12 Jun 2020 10:08:39 GMT

A vignette giving a snapshot of daily life on Church Street.

Winter hangs over Church Street in grey tatters. A carpet of damp, crumpled cardboard and stray cabbage leaves leads through the precarious jumble of striped tarpaulins and knocked down prices. Against the backdrop of drab brown concrete, seagulls circle and shriek, swooping down on discarded fish heads. Bursts of heated Arabic mingle with the booming shouts of the market traders, penetrating the tight-lipped London gloom. By the falafel stand sits the same group of wizened old men. Partially obscured by clouds of smoke, they watch another day pass by, oblivious to the cold. Packaging and rubbish blow amongst the parked vans creating a messy maze through which veiled women drag shopping trolleys and reluctant children.

Outside the Pound Shop, plastic trestle tables sag under mountains of clothing and gaudy gold jewellery: more is more when it's 3 for £10. At this end of the street, no-one asks questions. The where, how, and who of manufacturing are sidelined in the struggle for survival. But only a few steps away, questions of origin, provenance and value take centre stage in the gently lit antique shop windows. Here everything is carefully researched, curated and catalogued, as experts with half-moon spectacles peer at delicate pieces, quietly uncovering fascinating stories of one-off treasures.

Somewhere in between the curiously colliding worlds stands the ancient, half-timbered public conveniences, blinking and bewildered. Its mossy roof provides a familiar perch for scores of homing pigeons in the ever changing urban jungle of cranes and construction sites. Across the street, a glass-fronted office looks on, reflections passing across its blank stare. 'Church Street Regeneration Hub' it says, in a bland corporate typeface in several scripts. Manned by an eager young man in a shirt and tie who commutes each day from another part of town. He sits behind a computer screen with the right answers to the right questions and glossy copies of the Community Consultation report. Outside, a woman with matted hair and no shoes shouts incoherently that no-one is listening to her, shaking her fist at the leaden sky beyond the tower blocks.

Church Street - Illustrations

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Fri, 12 Jun 2020 10:07:08 GMT

Mixed Media Illustrations Inspired by Church Street

Here is a glimpse of some recent mixed media illustrations inspired by my daily walks through Church Street.

Using collage, acrylic paint, chalk pastel and ink, I have tried to reflect the grimy, gritty urban textures; layers of change and history; vibrancy, colour and life; and accidentally-occurring abstract patterns, rhythms and shapes.

Many collage materials used in the artwork were sourced in Church Street itself, such as the gold sequinned fabric, Arabic newspapers and various pieces of discarded packaging.

Church Street - Inspirations

victoria_fifield@hotmail.com (Victoria Fifield) — Fri, 12 Jun 2020 10:05:01 GMT

The London Street of Contrasts and Contradictions

Church Street runs between Edgware Road and Lisson Grove in northwest London. In the olden days of pre-lockdown, I worked just round the corner (if my hazy memories serve me correctly). The unusual and little known street has been an endless source of fascination and creative inspiration for me.

Setting The Scene

The Church Street area is ethnically diverse, with a large Arabic-speaking Muslim population and high levels of social deprivation. The skyline is a jumble of council tower blocks interspersed with cranes from nearby construction sites. Below, the street features a bustling daily market at the Edgware Road end, selling everything from fruit and vegetables to fresh fish - cooked while you wait - to cheap clothing and perfumes. Pound shops, hardware stores and newsagents are clustered along the busy pavements.

In sharp contrast, the Lisson Grove end of Church Street is lined with upmarket furniture stores and antique shops including the famous Alfie's Market which is home to more than 70 antique dealers. Here, a few minutes' browsing may unearth a Ming dynasty vase, some original Roman religious relics and an ancient African tribal headdress...my lunch breaks are never dull.

Visual Variety
For an artist the street offers endless visual variety to enjoy and explore: the square, regular, repeated patterns of the council tower blocks; the irregular, haphazard shapes of the market stalls; the beautiful window displays of the antique shops; the chaotic, makeshift displays of the market; the patterns created - and interrupted - by piles of stacked plastic crates, cardboard boxes and metal cages; and all around, fluttering striped tarpaulins and the ever-changing patterns of human movement and interaction.

Conceptual Contrasts

There is also no shortage of conceptual contrasts to ponder - not least the drastic shift in attitudes and philosophy as you walk from one end of the street to the other. At one extreme, quality is everything, whilst at the other, quantity reigns. Whilst origin and provenance is of supreme importance to the antique dealers, the source of the cheap goods and clothing in the market may be better not to know. Some of the goods are to be treasured for generations, others to be disposed of without a second thought. And whilst at one end of the street, basic everyday needs are met, at the other sales are driven purely by desire.

My daily jaunts along Church Street have inspired an ongoing series of creative responses - subsequent posts will feature some of these. If you live in London or are ever visiting, I encourage you to ditch the tourist traps for an afternoon and head to Church Street for a feast of contrasts and contradictions (and some very tasty fish).

Welcome one and all

PAR002_123@heg.com — Fri, 05 Jun 2020 09:25:54 GMT

Welcome to the all-new Hipster Spinster blog!

After much umming and ahhing and notebooks full of grand, over-ambitious ideas I've finally taken the plunge into the world of blogging!

So, what can you expect to find here over the coming weeks and months?

Ideas, inspirations, work in progress. In keeping with the general spirit of Hipster Spinster, it is unlikely to follow any standard format or be confined to a single theme..

So whether you're interested to see the different stages in creating artworks, want to share in my current inspirations, or would like to read selected snippets from my writing, be sure to check back here!

I hereby cut the ribbon and declare the Hipster Spinster blog open!