NIGHT 16 – THE STORY OF THE THIRD DERVISH

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LACQUER FRACTALS

Traditional techniques meet modern Mandelbrot sets. The ancient and modern collide and the infinite is born. Fractals represent a shape in a shape within a shape within the selfsame shape… a story within a story within a story in the manner of the 1001 Nights. For me, both fractals and the 1001 Nights signal endless possibilities, something that excites me as I want to explore them all.

Lacquer and japanning are traditional techniques used in luxury objects and furniture. Layer upon layer is painted until a high-shine finish is achieved. Protective when cured and dry, it is highly poisonous when wet. You can eat off lacquer utensils, chopsticks and bowls when dry.  It has been used for musical instruments, furniture and even coffins. It is waterproof and highly durable. The ancient samurai had leather armour varnished with lacquer to make it weatherproof.

Red and black are ancient colours.  The Sanskrit word lākshā (लाक्षा), which also means 100,000 (possibly because insects are numerous) was used both for the lac insect and the scarlet red, shellac-rich resinous secretion that was used to finish wood in ancient India. The word oozes and changes slowly throughout history and geography: Prakrit lakkha seeped into the Hindi lakh, which morphed into the Persian lak, settling into Arabic lakk – the Middle East traded lacquerware – thence to Medieval Latin lacca, whence Portuguese and French lacre – hence English lacquer.  Just as the word china came to be used for fine porcelain, so too japanning for the European version of lacquer (lacquer proper needs a warm and humid environment, the opposite of cold, dry northern European climes). Chinese (and subsequently Japanese, Korean and Southeast Asian) lacquers contain urushiol, the active ingredient of the resin, from the toxicodendron vernicifluum tree (note the presence of the root toxi-: it is highly poisonous stuff!): raw lacquer is known as 生漆: ki-urushi  in Japanese, shengqi in Chinese.  This can be mixed into different colours – the classic traditional colours for lacquer being red, black, yellow and gold and silver. The famous Chinese red lacquer is made by mixing it with cinnabar – the same origin of the reds in my lacquer pieces.  Lacquer is truly an ancient craft: Chinese Neolithic lacquerware dating from 5000-4500 BC has been unearthed.

Of course, fractals have been around forever in nature and in art.  The mathematic disciplines behind fractals as we know them today began in the 17th century with Leibniz and progressed right up to Benoit Mandelbrot who gave his name to the forms he was studying in the 1960s – studying, as it happened, the coastline of Britain – how an island is itself a fractal.

Fractals are complexity encapsulated. I have always been drawn to complexity as it challenges me to imagine all the possible outcomes of an event or idea, while reminding me that the world is myriad and the people in it full of unique stories – unique yet also ‘the same, but different’. Fractals are selfsame images with slight differences in their permutations.  They can be found throughout the natural world, in coastlines and clouds, mountain ranges and river networks, trees and snowflakes, waves and crystals as well as in our blood vessels and DNA. At its core, it is a pattern that shapes the universe.

Complexity can be rendered very simply. We can also imagine complexity when confronted with very simple images. The picture of a fractal thus becomes a symbol of the complex, its image enough to indicate infinite microcosmic or macrocosmic worlds which mirror each other, repeating ceaselessly until the end of time ~

NIGHT 15 – THE STORY OF THE THIRD DERVISH

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THE TWINKLING LIGHTS OF THE CITY

In Chinese Tang Dynasty poetry (618-907) there is an image of internal struggle which I share.  This is the dilemma: An old wanderer feels frustrated and stifled by their annoying village fellows and yearns to break free from their petty gossip.  So they escape from the safety of the village into the wilderness of the mountains.  Finally they feel free, back in nature and able to breathe and tell their sorrows to the winds and the trees.  After a while they realise that the trees, though soft and gentle, have nothing to say in reply.  They gradually realise it is getting dark on the mountain and as evening falls, they notice the twinkling lights of the city below.  They are getting cold and lonely on the hillside and yearn again for the company of people, hot soup and companionship, and so, with a shrug of their shoulders and a sigh, head back down to the village again.  This ‘basic conflict… between… conscious desire for solitude and… unconscious need to have other people around’¹, or yearning to break free and then yearning to return again is something I experience. It is ‘the paradox of isolation’² and can be found in the Tang poetry of Wang Wei and also Tao Yuanming, who was ‘reassured by spirals of kitchen-smoke from distant villages’³.  Perhaps it is similar to a hermit-like need to retreat temporarily into a cave.

I see a parallel here with the desert fathers of early Christianity; their desert isolation became isolation in the European forests in medieval times, which became isolation in the sea, and islands; Irish monks thought of the ocean as a kind of liquid desert.  There is a long tradition of monks and sailors seeking something (wonder, enlightenment, escape) from Sinbad right back to the Brendan voyage (for more info see full thesis on Floating Islands which can be found on my website under ‘Articles’).  In my twenties, living alone in my flat in Bethnal Green, if I ever felt lonely I’d go up to the roof and look down over London at night, or sit in my window with a cup of tea, gazing at the city.  In the film Hugo, the eponymous boy takes a girl up to the top of the train station clock tower in Paris and tells her: if he ever felt lost or alone he’d come up here, and realise that just as each part of the city below had a purpose and interacted with every other part, so each and every person has a purpose, too, a place and a role, and then he didn’t feel quite so lonely.  Being high up and solitary, seeking solace in nature gives you some perspective.  It’s not for nothing that mountains are places of meditation; indeed, the famous Court of Gayumars miniature painting I studied at The Prince’s School of Traditional Arts for my MA sets this king high up on a mountain rock.  It takes me right back to my childhood in Hong Kong growing up from an island separate from the main island (Hong Kong island), where we lived on a hill, upland – and at night, you could see the twinkling lights of the vast city beyond across the water. This was my nightly view and is also the subject of my work Drive In.

I sometimes dream of being a monk painting away in a library or scriptorium on an island with a view of the sea. And perhaps, also, out of the opposite window, a glimpse of a faraway city below twinkling with lights ~

¹Barnes, Archie, Chinese Through Poetry: An Introduction to the Language and Imagery of Traditional Verse. Britain: Alcuin Academics, 2007, pp. 74-5
²Barnes, Chinese Through Poetry: An Introduction to the Language and Imagery of Traditional Verse, pp. 112-3
³ibid., pp. 112-3

NIGHT 14 – THE STORY OF THE THIRD DERVISH

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WHY I LIKE CINEMA

In some ways my life has been shaped by cinema. Sesame Street and sitcoms aside, the first feature-length film I saw in Hong Kong that I remember, in fact, was Disney’s Little Mermaid in my friend’s flat. I have early cinema memories from Hong Kong, for instance when I went with the whole family to see first Disney’s Aladdin and then Beauty and the Beast, and my sister falling asleep during the films because she was so young.  Then later going to Hong Kong on my own from the UK and watching Waterworld in the cinema (which, although not considered a great film, included tattoos and maps and the future and islands).

My childhood in Hong Kong has now become like a movie to me – the older I get the more faded, flickering and comfortably rosy it gets, like looking back at old familiar videos with a smile on one’s face.  I can replay favourite scenes at will, and rewind and fast-forward as I desire. Life through a lens.

As a teenager, I watched old black and white and epic silver screen movies on Sundays with my grandmother at her house. The King and I; Elizabeth Taylor; Indiana Jones with my mother; Star Wars. Shared family watching included American sitcoms at set times, and I especially loved reruns of I Dream of Jeannie (which is actually from my parents’ era) , the Addams Family (which I feel is just like how Patrik and I live today!) and Bewitched, which were like magic realist series – plus I Dream of Jeannie was about the space race! Partly what I love about my parents’ generation – and it is a kind of nostalgia fuelled by the media made at the time, a nostalgia for something I never lived through – is how (at least in the movies and in these serials) everyone is so polite to each other, even when they’re angry.  It’s a lost art, and doesn’t happen in my generation.

Clockwise from top left: The Thief of Bagdad (1924 film) with its 1920s polite insults; Anna May Wong, the Chinese actress in Hollywood and the first Chinese-American movie star; Douglas Fairbanks and Anna May Wong; the Mongol (Chinese), Indian and Persian Princes plot against the Arab Prince; the flying horse, which is achieved by superimposing the film, an early cinema technique I used myself in my Bollywood film

We watched one of the first ever 3D films at the IMAX cinema, Across the Sea of Time, about Ellis Island and a Russian immigrant boy in New York, trying to find his long-lost grandma by making a few dollars showing images to passers-by with his stereoscope.  He stowed away on a ship and there was an arresting scene in 3D when the ocean seemed to wash over us… suddenly loomed the saviour-Statue of Liberty. Give me your tiredyour poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. We visited the real Ellis Island and New York, a brief sideways loop into an endlessly fascinating city of cities, city of dreams and a memory of a lifetime. Only now do I suddenly realise that this little boy may have been like a premonition of my future husband, whose own tale bears a resemblance to his. Later we were both moved to tears by Shaun Tan’s wordless picture book about immigrants, The Arrival – itself containing a New York-esque saviour city where dreams are born and fortunes made.  Only recently I bought the ViewMaster stereoscope reels of this legendary 1995 film. I love New York.  I also bought the soundtrack to this film as a teenager and play it as background painting music; it takes me back to that cinema every time.

Later on as my thought matured, I studied New Wave French cinema in French class at school and watched Luc Besson’s Le Dernier Combat for the first time and thought about science fiction. Then the classic – and my favourite film of all time – Blade Runner – I have never seen a greater film before or since. I watch it every year and still get something new from it every time. I realised that film could really be an art form; le septième art; the seventh art. I went deeper into this and watched as many films as I could; I had a Saturday job in a library so I could borrow as many as I liked free of charge. So I did – I became interested in world cinema and devoured most of what the library had to offer (and it was the biggest library in Kent). I enjoyed learning about other countries through their films and would watch anything to expand my horizons – aged 15-17, when I was also busy studying hard, the only relaxation I allowed myself was watching world cinema in the evenings (I considered it part of my education).

At the Slade, when we had to choose our departments, I unexpectedly chose 16mm film instead of painting because I was so entranced by the magic of it, and figured I had the chance to do it so I should, since painting was already in my blood but film was so new and exciting and textural – in those days you could still learn proper film techniques and cutting the film meant literally cutting and splicing it: editing was a physical process. I really got into this and made my first short film, the Bollywood film (film stills of which are on my website), which also shows my early interest in cinematographic art, matte painting and stories – this is a humorous condensed story wrapped up in 2.5 minutes. We had to also learn Final Cut Pro (I don’t know what software they use these days) and digital editing to edit both telecined films and digital videos, and I was glad that I had the original skills of ‘cutting’ and ‘splicing’, which mean nothing to today’s purely digital editors… I went through the traditional art of filmmaking, whose tangible celluloid surface came first! I continued watching world films every Sunday with my friend who lived in Hackney early on at the Slade and he’d give me a lift home on his bicycle, cycling dangerously sometimes in the early hours, but we were young and reckless then… We used to visit our friend, Umit of Umit Cameras in Hackney as he sold and rented 16mm and 8mm movies. And I joined Close Up, a film library, which was then located on Brick Lane, which I walked to weekly to get my fix of world cinema.

At the Slade we also studied postmodernism and I was excited that my favourite film, Blade Runner, was featured on the course; I painted giant screens in the sky in an early work. I always kept up my painting practise alongside my filmmaking. Then I went to Paris to study at the Ecole Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts, and I fell back in love with painting all over again… those really are my roots; I have painted all my life. I shared a flat with a Polish painter and we did everything together. She was my best friend in Paris, and I painted alongside doing film and cinema. I had always loved film’s tactile quality and was looking at the work of Stan Brakhage et al, scratching directly into and colouring onto the celluloid surface. My flat was covered in film reels and lengths of film hanging down from shelves; I also bought a Steenbeck editing suite, my pride and joy; new, they cost in the thousands; mine was second-hand from Canterbury University and it took a father, his daughter and I to lug it up to my flat in Bethnal Green. But we did it, and I spent many happy hours editing, scrutinising, cutting and splicing my films.

In Paris, in the country that invented cinema, I enjoyed going to the cinema alone – by now I’d become used to doing things alone (most efficient way to get things done!) and enjoyed going to places alone, seeing nothing inherently wrong with it. I remember watching the newly-released Borat movie, subtitled into French – but because I also spoke English I’d laugh first, and then hear the rest of the audience laughing seconds later! – and then art films at the beautiful cinema La Pagode (all cinemas should look like this!) and feeling somehow proud of myself for enjoying my company alone and being by myself. Back in London I, unusually, went to a concert alone (I rarely go to concerts, being more visual) – I made an exception to hear the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra play the breathtaking and atmospheric Vangelis Blade Runner soundtrack – favourite music of my favourite film. They got a standing ovation.

At the end of the Slade I borrowed a book from UCL library about the forgotten art of glass painting for film backgrounds – matte painting’s origins. Now it’s all done digitally of course, but it was a real skill in the past and I made my own films that combined film with painting.  But just as matte painting itself became a forgotten art, film itself was slowly dying, too. Tacita Dean, another Slade graduate, famously said that she needed the ‘stuff’ of films, analogue film as a medium to make her work… and sadly, in the UK at least, we all watched helplessly as this beautiful industry declined.  Now we cannot fully make 16mm films in the UK anymore.  We must get them processed in Europe, where they still have the facilites to do so.  I remember blissful summer days walking round Soho to excitedly collect my developed and processed films from Soho Images (which is no longer there… how London changes!)… from the ease of that, to hardly anyone making analogue movies in the UK (apart from a small group of artists – some my friends and colleagues – who have always done so).

The film library Close-Up in Bethnal Green was still a constant in my life (in fact, it still is) during my time at the Prince’s School of Traditional Arts, and now I became interested in world cinema that looked at traditions from around the world, watching them on my laptop propped up on my Steenbeck 16mm film editor. I remember feeling proud that my dad once worked with the company that helped the first Westerners to be allowed in the Forbidden City in China to film The Last Emperor – a fact that he still reminds me of today!

In my second favourite film, Luna Papa (Луна Папа: Tajikistan – this film also features a floating island!) the heroine arrives too late for the movie at the open air theatre – the movie has already finished – and there is a special feeling of emptiness after the movie has finished – yet also anticipation, as it is a warm summer night that has just begun for her.  It’s this strange feeling before and after a movie that I want to paint.

After Paris I also became interested in collecting antiques and longed to buy vintage cinema seats.  Fortuitously I met my future husband Patrik, and we used to go round London and Paris flea markets together.  In the end he bought the vintage cinema seats we now have, which feature in my large-scale work Drive In.  In the early days of our relationship Patrik was working on the leather part of an interior for a rich English banker who had his own huge private home cinema, the largest private one I’d seen before in real life and the only nice part of his bland rich house which was soulless (he never lived in it).  The doors were triple height and even the cinema was boring!

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Memorable times I spent with Patrik watching films included going to see Hugo (about George Meliès, the early filmmaker) after we’d argued, and watching the film made us feel so good that we made up again, and watching Cinema Paradiso, one of our shared favourite films.  Later on, we enjoyed The Grand Budapest Hotel – he concedes grudgingly that I have quite good taste in films.

I started to enjoy listening to dramatic film soundtracks, especially Vangelis and Ennio Morricone while painting, because it reminded me of that special Friday-night feeling of looking forward to going to the cinema, especially when I had the privilege of sharing a large studio for several years with my good friend who regularly paints large-scale works. Music played loud in this place was really something. These were special times before and after my marriage and I will always cherish my memories of this wonderful painting studio – where I first painted cinemas.  I decided to paint the actual place, the cinema itself, as I loved the spaces of cinemas and all that they held for me.  ‘Paint what you love’, I was told.  So I did. Later on we shared this studio with, appropriately, a film composer who provided her own dramatic soundtracks – a perfect combination of art and music.  Good times!

I began to entertain the idea that one day I’d like my own cinema as a side business and possibly a supper club… that’s still a possibility for the future when I’m more settled.  For now, I’m enjoying London’s cinemas. I used to wear a hoodie and go to the cinema alone in London during the BFI film festival, to see obscure Georgian or Mongolian films or films from different countries where hardly anyone is in the cinema.  Cinema is an expensive luxury I allow myself to indulge in.

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Patrik and I walked to the Lexi cinema sometimes on a whim to see a movie together.  We’d make a point of buying popcorn and Coca-Cola (things we’d otherwise not have) and make a night of it.  I noticed the anticipation that always comes with watching trailers before a movie starts, and the 20th century fox drumroll, or the Universal Studios dramatic sunrise over earth credits, and started to remember this feeling, trying to bottle it and paint it.

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One of London’s hidden gems: the Cinema Museum in Lambeth

I didn’t think that cinema was that important to me until I painted them; for me it was just relaxation and entertainment while learning something new but now I realise it is so much more. I look forward to sharing it anew with my family, both in the cosy home cinema we’ll create and visiting actual cinemas outside.  Although I don’t relish the idea of my children spending hours and hours in front of screens, cinema is projected light reflected off a giant screen and engages your eyes (and senses) differently, as opposed to the projected light from a computer screen.  Cinema has broadened my knowledge, opened my mind and shaped my life.  Now we have Netflix, so we can watch the latest releases – but not beautifully crafted world cinema, mind you – in the comfort of our own home.  But there is still something about taking a trip to go somewhere else, to be transported, to be in a dark place, set apart from the real world, isolated and cocooned and immersed in a story. Cinemas are islands ~

 

 

NIGHT 13 – THE STORY OF THE ENVIOUS AND THE ENVIED

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THE LAND OF GREEN GINGER

The Land of Green Ginger
Oil on canvas, unravelled remade carpet fractal
270 x 385 cm
2017

Barbara Hepworth said: ‘Perhaps what one wants to say is formed in childhood and the rest of one’s life is spent in trying to say it.’ I agree. What I wanted to say in childhood was that all islands are floating; the world is sometimes confusing but through the chaos there is beauty abundant; blues and greens are the best colours in the world. In many ways this show brings back my island childhood to me and is a fitting subject for my first solo show.

The Land of Green Ginger, along with the 1001 Nights, was a favourite childhood book. I remember the moment I spied it in the library when we’d just moved to England after Hong Kong, which I missed tremendously, and the book’s cover showed a flying island! It was as if the universe had just given me a gift – a sort of link back to my island – and I was thrilled at the coincidence. And when I read it to myself at home I found myself laughing out loud – the perfect antidote to grey skies. Thus I tumbled back into the world of fairytale – the world of the 1001 Nights that I’d just left off in Hong Kong (in fact I was a voracious reader as a child in England; in some ways it saved me from a dreary existence of school and homework and ignited my imagination like nothing else. That’s why I’m such a fan of books, the book arts and libraries – they are transformational).

I still find myself laughing out loud every time I read it – there has to date not been a single instance of me reading it where I have not laughed. I read it annually and it gets me every time. It’s the perfect de-stressor. It’s stereotyped and a product of the era in which it was written (1937 – the original Tale of the Land of Green Ginger was written by Arthur Barker) yet it’s so ludicrous and ridiculous that it is genuinely funny. Not only is it funny, it’s heartwarming with lovable characters and an exciting plot (what happened after Aladdin had kids?) too. I own almost all editions of this wonderful book and look forward to sharing it with my own family.

My piece is entitled The Land of Green Ginger in homage to this favourite childhood title of mine. A flying, errant island that bumbles along wherever its fancy takes it, despite attempts to control it. When the Magician does manage to steer it properly, he has to go through a lengthy magical process first and although the island is his own creation, it still has a mind of its own. In my painting, lava seeps down slowly, anointing the giant stone which is the signal for it to break free from its womb-like cave, dripping in the blues and greens of island colours. Many a new island is formed by the volcanic process, giving birth to baby islands in the sea. The big rocky island in my painting has detached from its slippery cave and is about to take off and fly, supported by a cloud-like Chinese carpet cut, unravelled and re-fringed in the shape of a fractal. It comes into sharper focus as it unpeels itself from the background and prepares for its own flight. The carpet rests on the floor, as it’s still earth-bound, but is also attached to the painting, in the process of becoming buoyant. It’s resting potential – a subject I will explore in other works (in the tapestry roots pieces the lift-off has already occurred; flight has already happened and the pieces are up on the walls). There is a passage in The Tale of the Land of Green Ginger where the magic flying carpet tries to lift Abu Ali and Princess Budur to safety but alas, cannot fit through the window, so simply hangs there, motionless. Carpets and rugs are supposed to be on the floor, but sometimes they are meant to fly – this one is in the middle of both.

The feeling of lift-off and weightlessness is one I always loved as a child when planes were taking off. I likened waiting to give birth to this feeling (see my earlier post here) – birth in itself is a process of shedding weight in order to become ‘higher’ – spiritually higher also. My yoga teacher mentioned that yogis spend years trying to attain enlightenment and one quick way to glimpse it is simply to give birth! This glimpsing of enlightenment is also pictured in what I call my ‘Pockets of the Universe’ parts of paintings. We live a mundane existence but occasionally – just occasionally – we are given glimpses of greatness, seeing, out of the corner of one’s eyes, slits where the infinite pours in, flashes of the universe where we suddenly see in sharp focus how everything is connected and how we are connected to it. It’s almost like looking down on oneself from high above, floating in space. It’s where inspiration lies and this semi-weightless feeling is encapsulated in this work.

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My carpet is remade into a fractal shape. Fractals are themselves forms found in clouds and coastlines and were a teenage interest of mine; I grew up when fractal art, digital arts and Photoshop were just beginning to get good, and I remember getting the latest digital arts magazines and poring over the millions of fantastic digital colours then painstakingly trying to replicate them in oils. It’s not always possible; projected light is different to reflected light, and RGB colours on screen differ from CMYK print colours, or paint colours. The struggle between the two still fascinates me. In some ways my own unique colour sense has been shaped by my early island memories in Hong Kong, my teenage fascination with fractals and computer arts and my longstanding interest in miniature painting. My carpet was obtained after long and steady persistence – it originally belonged to my husband but since the shapes and colours in the carpet were just perfect – the blues and greens echoed perfectly the ones in my paintings, and although I’d obviously had other carpet opportunities it simply HAD to be this one since I saw it almost every day and it became ingrained into my consciousness – after around 7 years of consistent gentle pressure (he would argue otherwise) he eventually caved in and I was able to complete this work (!). It was an old, tired and worn carpet and I wanted to give it new life by lovingly cleaning it, reshaping it and remaking it into art. Luckily he likes it!

A fractal is an infinite shape and cannot really be contained. Similarly, the patterns in carpets and the Islamic book arts (tazhib illumination) are inexhaustible in their variety and so buzzing and bursting with energy that it makes sense to me to allow them freedom (seen also in my Floating Neshan, which is so free that it floats high above the gallery space!). I have always enjoyed playing with the frames and doodling in the margins. I don’t believe that my work should be confined within the edges of the canvas, or frame, or box. Mughal and Persian artists understood this: the rocks, which I studied on my MA, regularly burst free from their margins. Medieval scribes also enjoyed doodling in the margins of their manuscripts and schoolchildren do this intuitively too. I enjoy having the boundaries of the box – if only to escape them later. Know the rules well, said the Dalai Lama, in order to break them effectively.

The dialogue between the painted image and the burst margin is one that interests me tremendously because it’s where you see the true location of the art, the true meaning, the truth! Truth is hidden between the lines, in between the main image and the commentary on the side. And I’m always seeking similarities, not looking for differences, so that sympathetic materials can have conversations. Creative associations and unlikely alliances can be formed.

Having a margin to play with allows for these new realities to be made. It’s not just one image anymore, nor is it simply two adjacent images – it’s two images with a kind of emergent ‘third space’ – the space in between them – where a new meaning lies. The juxtaposition of two complex images creates a boundary or border where they meet. The visual leap between the main image and the image of the margin/frame is like a footnote, an asterisked comment, a ‘by-the-way, did-you-know…?’ that changes one’s entire reading of the piece. This is exciting and this is where the ‘art’ lies. It encourages active, not passive thought processes and the visual leaps inspire mental leaps. Think outside the box. Be creative in thinking. Make unusual connections. Everything is connected. The thing inside the box and the thing outside are always connected. Mine are sometimes connected by colour, or a similar shape or form, or otherwise tenuous connections that suddenly make sense after deep thought or contemplation. In a roundabout way, it’s like being mixed-race (or ‘mixed-race other’ like me!) and having a natural duality in which to spring back and forth. The most interesting things happen at the side, or on the edges, where two (or more) things meet.

So it is with The Land of Green Ginger: for me it is the beginning of something, the resting potential, gathering its energies before it takes off into full flight ~

*Here are some excerpts from the book:

‘Fortune preserve you, gentle reader. May your days be filled with constant joy, and may my story please you, for it has no other purpose.
‘And now, if we are all ready to begin, I bring you a tale of the wonderful wandering of an enchanted land which was never in the same place twice.’

‘Everyone present rose and bowed as he departed for the balcony, and the Lord Chamberlain rather forlornly wrote ‘Bang’ on his piece of paper, and then thought better of it and drew little faces down the side instead, to help him concentrate.’ (Just as I do – doodling is great!)

“The Land of Green Ginger,’ announced the Djinn impressively, ‘was built by a Magician who was very fond of fresh vegetables. The idea was that when he went travelling, he could take the Land of Green Ginger with him like a portable kitchen-garden, only fancier’

“It’s always where you’d LEAST expect it to be. For example, a tired travelled might go to sleep on a barren desert, and wake up with his feet up a tree and his head on a mushroom.’

“You know, your mother always WAS a little too verbal,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Wouldn’t she be more valuable to collectors if she were to stay like that?’ (Thus the Djinn Abdul freezes Aladdin’s mother into a porcelain figurine!)

“By the way,’ he added insincerely, ‘I’ve forgotten the spell that restores decorative ornaments to humdrum life. Does anybody mind?’

‘The Shah of Persia sent a politely worded invitation to his son, the vapid, vindictive Prince Tintac Ping Foo; requesting the dubious honour of his presence on a matter of urgent importance; and after Prince Tintac Ping Foo had deliberately kept the Shah of Persia waiting for forty-two minutes, he haughtily presented himself.
“Ah, Tintac Ping Foo,’ said the Shah of Persia ingratiatingly, ‘I want to have a friendly, man-to-man, equal-to-equal, father-to-son talk with you, my boy.’
“Oh, you do, do you?’ riposted Tintac Ping Foo ungraciously. ‘Well, if it’s about cheating at chess, I wouldn’t bother, because I ADORE cheating at chess; I shall continue to cheat at chess; and if you DARE to stop me, I shall put glue in your beard!’

(On his rival, Prince Rubdub Ben Thud of Arabia)
“That balloon-faced butterball? Do you DARE to tell me he has the silly sauce to pit himself against a paragon of lovable manly virtues like me?’

‘Ho there, Slaves! My camels! My retinue! My magic sword! My jellybeans! I leave at once for Samarkand!’

‘The donkey, laughing quietly to himself, sat down as before; but having reckoned without the tack, he sat down on that.
‘Like a homing swallow, like a comet in the sky – like a donkey that had just sat down on a tack – he sped down the street, and Abu Ali and Omar Khayyam held on like fury.’

‘His name was Kublai Snoo, and he could wiggle his ears.’

‘There in the clearing, dancing about and not noticing them as yet, was a huge, horned, scaly, scowly, nozzle-nosed, claw-hammered, gaggle-toothed, people-hating, smoke-snorting, fire-eating, flame-throwing, penulticarnivorous, bright green Dragon.’

‘Then the green smoke slowly faded to reveal a small, round, fat, fourteen-carat, rueful, green-hued Djinn seated on the grass, looking more than slightly dazed.’

“Would you care to repeat that without a potato in your mouth?’ asked Ping Foo superciliously.’

“LOOK!’ said Sulkpot in an alarmingly hoarse whisper. ‘The next sound EITHER of you makes, you’ll BOTH go straight into the boiling oil! Is that absolutely clear?’
‘Yes,’ said the Captain of the Guard.
‘No,’ said Kublai Snoo.
‘WHAT?’ roared Nagnag, clutching at the couch.
‘He can’t throw us in the oil vat,’ said Kublai Snoo to the Captain serenly. ‘It’s our afternoon off in a minute. We caught a suitor!’

‘Kublai Snoo and the Captain beamed and marched one pace forward smartly, expecting promotion or at least a medal.
‘Sulkpot stretched out both his arms and banged their helmets together.’

There are many more but I can’t include the whole book here. This tale has many plays on language and a tight, witty, clever use of English so I look forward to sharing it with my family. Every sentence is perfectly crafted. It’s also great for reading out loud.

Here are some of the Edward Ardizzone illustrations: