On residency with Simon Linington
BAJO LA SIERRA LARGA, 2020
Cross disciplinary artist and writer Simon Linington came to stay at the cottage back in November 2022 for a week long residency. I had met Simon at the wonderful JOYA: Arte +Ecologica and was fascinated by his methodical but gentle approach to the landscape in his work. Born on the Isle of Wight, Simon has traveled a lot in recent years, turning a thoughtful eye on landscapes from Mexico City to the Netherlands. There is something of the quirky British countryside in his character that I instantly recognised and felt at ease with. We all met up at the Black Horse pub to discuss his work and connections with the local area.
Among many things we talked of the vintage layered sand souvenirs made by his grandfather on the Isle of Wight. These curious objects are brilliantly kitsch and provide a fascinating link to Simon’s sculpture work which draws on a similar process of working with the earth to explore concepts of time and place.
It is this poetic connection with landscape and layers that weave a gentle narrative through all of Simon’s work, from his sculpture and paintings to his writing. In his written pieces the tone is soft and reflective; a stream of almost sub-conscious, layered observations that at once feel familiar yet at the same time completely surreal.
Simon was looking for somewhere peaceful to work on his writing for the week before heading off to work on more sculptures. He has been kind enough to share some words and images about his time at the cottage, see below…
‘TOO MUCH WATER, TOO CLOSE TO HOME’ (2023)
‘TOO MUCH WATER, TOO CLOSE TO HOME’ (Detail) (2023)
OLD ALUM BAY SANDS 'CURIOSITY SOUVENIR PEN
‘NOTICE THE MOUNTAIN IS STILL THERE AND SHAKE MY HEAD AND EVERYTHING INSIDE IT’ (2022)
For months I’d held an idea for a short story in my head but kept making excuses not to start writing. I just needed to sit at my laptop and type, and I decided a village with no shops and a couple of pubs was the perfect place to do it.
On my first morning in Amberley, I went for a walk to see what was around the cottage because I wanted to incorporate my surroundings into the story. I came off the common and walked along a road until I reached a bench under a tree looking out over a valley. Attached to the bench is a plaque that reads '‘Not a day goes by that your not loved and missed.’ I had decided my story would be about losing someone you love, and I knew I was in the right place to start.
What came out wasn’t what I was expecting. It was sadder, more surreal, suffocating even. Writing about a transformation in the landscape, I remembered a conversation with a dream analyst years ago. They said when we dream about a landscape, we're sometimes dreaming about a person, and our interaction with the landscape tells us something about our feelings for that person.
Every day, I sat on the bench under the tree and watched the breeze shove the clouds over the valley. For the first time in months, a space opened out in front of me, and I would close my eyes and concentrate on the feeling of my chest rising and sinking and listen to the falling leaves.
‘The wind howls over the common and beats the near-white grass down into the sodden earth. Ahead of me, I see a bench under a yellow-leafed tree looking out over a valley. I walk up to it, and attached in the middle is a small silver plaque that reads
Not a day goes by when your not loved and missed
I look at the word your and think about all the times my mother complained about other people’s spelling mistakes.
I sit on the bench and feel over the pocket of my jeans for my cigarettes. I pull out the packet and flip the lid open with my thumb before taking a cigarette from the middle. I put it in my mouth and raise the lighter to meet the end of it, and the flint wheel makes a familiar scraping sound as I depress it.
I blow the cigarette smoke far away from me and watch it drift over two weeks of rain, green grass and hedgerows jammed with orange leaves, thorns, and thistles. It disappears into a valley where low-lying clouds with bruised, swollen bellies burn golden at the edges, and starlings chase each other from one wind-blasted tree to another.’
Words and images by Simon Linington and Katie.
