So the new knee is now 6 weeks old, and beginning to be used for its true purpose. My other half (OH) is patiently waiting for permission to walk more than a few minutes a day.

It is a slow game, with many anxieties along the way. The days merge into a routine of exercises, physiotherapy, resting and icing. Meanwhile I have been doing more household tasks than usual. as OH is normally very good at shopping and cooking, and the grass has started growing.

Today we managed a short trip to London, by train, to hear the artist Beatrice Forshall speak at Eames Fine Art Studio.

Beatrice has been passionate about animal conservation since her childhood in rural France. As a child she made papier mache models of endangered species to raise money for the WWF. After studying illustration at Falmouth she now specialises in drypoint etchings of endangered species, whether large mammals or tiny insects. She is an eloquent and inspiring speaker.

Did you know that the dung beetle is endangered because it navigates by the Milky Way, and light pollution is interfering with its ability to roll its balls of dung in a straight line to where it needs to go?

Or that there are only 10 asiatic cheetahs reamining in the world, all in Iran?

Sobering facts.

Which got me thinking about the point of art. Does it need to have a message?

As I struggle to get back into writing and to find a focus for my photographic work I  frequently comtemplate this question.

Having also, like Beatrice, made art about man's impact on our planet, I now find myself experimenting endlessly as the only way forward after exhausting my personal well of enthusiasm for making work about litter and pollution.

And my answer is a resounding 'NO'!

Art is primarily for the benefit of its creator. A way of expressing oneself in ways other than speech can allow.

I like to think of my art self as my alter ego.

Free to act in ways that my past self did not feel able.

To dance in the sunshine.

To play.

To try new things. 

And it is in this frame of mind that I prepare for a trip to Santa Fe photographic centre, to work with the desert landscape in new ways under the supervision of Anna Rotty.

Desert landscapes have always excited me. Almost as much as mountains and forests. The vast expanses of sky and wide vistas. A feeling of freedom that I do not feel in a forest.

A feeling of insignificance on this vast planet. of awe for the plants and creatures that live in these inhospitable places.

I don't yet know how I will respond to the landscape of New Mexico, but I am looking forward to finding new ways to express my feelings about future  places that I visit.

The workshop will involve making new photographs in the landscape and then printing them and incorporating them back into the landscape as new imagined landscapes.

I am struck by the similar ways that I have captured these two deserts (shown above and below) on different continents with their islands of vegetation on very different soils. I hope to come back from this workshop with something completely different. Perhaps it will say something about the connections between deserts around the world. Perhaps it will better express how being in these environments makes me feel.

Georgia O'Keeffe had her home near Santa Fe. Here she is pictured with her cat.

I like to think that I will be as inspired by her locality as she was.

O'Keeffe said 'I had to create an equivalent for what I felt about what I was looking at – not copy it.'

Her drawing below shows the landscape that I will be visiting soon.

The drawing inspired me to write some words as I remembered previous trips to desert landcapes.

Just passing through


Abiquiu.
Scrub spotted dusty desert hills. 
Land of the Tewa people.
Abiquiu means ‘wild chokecherry place’. 
I know not the people, the fruit
or the place.

I  am reminded of another desert,
a different continent. 

The blinding white of las Salinas Grandes;
a sea of caking salt beneath an intense cloudless sky.
Surfaces indeterminate, crusting, inhospitable.

We drowned in the overwhelming silence of this limitless landscape
where infrequent adventurers pass through from distant hills to unspecified destinations.

Bleached dunes and exotic formations carved by the wind. 
Giant blocks of pumice.
Soft curves and sharp edges carved and drawn as if from another galaxy.

A perfect cone arising from the plain where once magma spewed. 
Gritty boulders all that remain.
 Drawing us closer. 
Hypnotic.

Later, rolling rusty hills brushed with soft yellow grasses and the occasional cluster of slender legged inquisitive vicuna. 
Watching us as we did them.  

The heat: dry and unforgiving.
Desiccating skin and soil alike.

In that place I felt wonder
as we too 
passed through.

Below, in Georgia's more typical style, is her abstraction of a stream, as if seen from above.

Expressing one's feelings and learning more about oneself seem to me to be the best reasons to make art.

'If I could say it in words there would be no reason to paint,' said the painter Edward Hopper.

'
Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.' – wrote poet and artist Thomas Merton.

I came across this video of Ian McKellen talking passsionately about why we should all make art.

Any sort of art. With or without an obvious message behind it. it doesn't matter.

His words resonate deeply. He advises his audience to 'practice art to make your soul grow'.

I will be heading to the desert for that very reason. 

What about you?

Son writes a blog. Once a week, without fail. Until he doesn't.......

I feel that this creates a certain pressure for yours truly.  I try to write monthly, and am now three weeks late. Son wrote recently about the Nike trainers that I never let him have as a child. About skiing and the anticipation and excitement of his first ski of the winter season.  Daughter reminds me of the rule that I set for them as children that no breakfast cereal should cost more than 30p per 100g.

I was a tough negotiater.... a 'mean' mother...... I left all these scars. But we all have scars, right? My mother wouldn't let me play a second instrument. She couldn't afford it. So I took up the oboe as an adult, and then discovered that counting bars when my instrument was not playing was nigh on impossible for me, so I was never able to join an orchestra. Maybe son can buy his own Nike trainers now that he is grown up. And daughter can have any cereal of her choosing. I was only trying to stop them eating too much sugar. Fortunately Weetabix and Shreddies are cheaper than Cheerios and Frosties.

Strange things are happening; I find myself playing the piano again after years of abstinence. Drawn in by Bach's Goldberg Variations, which featured highly in the novel 'Do not Say we have Nothing' by Madeleine Thein. The novel explores the cultural revolution in China. How much tougher was the life of those sent to detention camps for playing music. Their instruments smashed and their compositions burned. I feel so lucky in comparison, and am trying to learn to play some of the easier variations. It is a very slow process.

But I am really here to tell you about Uzbekistan. My other half (OH) and I spent 10 days there in November, The problem that I have, is that I was so blown away by the whole experience that I haven't known where to start, or what to say.

 I was tempted to book the trip by some photos of the Tashkent metro stations that I saw on social media. I find it odd that I chose to book on such a whim. The rest of the trip far outshone the metro. Taking photos without a tripod and an empty station was challenging and unsatisfactory.

The metro stations are ornate and dramatic. Each has a theme.  Photography has only been allowed since 2018, as the stations used to have a secondary function as nuclear fall out shelters.

This one below, Kosmonavtlar, is about space exploration  and cosomonauts.

When I booked the holiday, I knew that we would be visiting cities from the ancient silk roads. Nothing prepared me for the breathtaking architecture found in the mosques, mausoleums, city squares and ancient madrasas ( colleges of islamic instruction).

From Tashkent, to Samarkand, and on to Khiva. So many buildings, so much beauty, and so easy to confuse them all after a whirlwind tour. I could dazzle you with ornate ceilings, walls and doors, but mostly I keep thinking about the people and the culture of the country that is about twice as large as the UK. 

The local tourists were as fascinated by us as we were with them. They were very friendly, and just as obsessed with their mobile phones as we were.

The younger generation are learning English as well as Uzbek and Russian, and were keen to practice on us by asking us for our telephone number and suggesting that we call each other ...... we politely declined.

​We were warned before we travelled that the diet consists mainly of meat, and that the local dish, Plov, a lamb, rice and vegetable dish is greasy and heavy.

So we were surprised to find that to he contrary, there were many options for delicious vegetables and salads, as well as the predicted kebabs and plov. Locals eat plov at least once a week, so it was interesting to see that you can buy pre-prepared carrots and potatoes in the local market. No plastic bags or cellophane wrapping in sight......!

The main reason to visit Uzbekistan is to visit the cities that formed part of the ancient Silk Road between the east and the west. We were bamboozled with historic facts wherever we went. A history that was unfamiliar and complicated. I found it hard to take it all in.

Mosques, mausoleums and madrasas, all built to impress with their blue tiles that denote wealth. Overwhelming in their scale and beauty. 

​We struggled with the local currency. One UK pound is 16,000 Uzbek Som. We needed 2000 som for a visit to the local 'facilities'. That's a loo, bathroom, restroom or WC to you, and is about 12 pence. in UK money. We held on to 2000 som notes wherever we could.

I was transfixed by the cloud formations in Tashkent. They seemed unlike any that I have seen in the west.

​

We heard about family culture from our wonderful guide, Lochin.

He explained that when a girl marries she is not supposed to smile at her wedding, as she should be sad at leaving her own family. We saw many very miserable looking brides. The grooms looked pretty serious too. 

​

Another custom is related to finding a partner that you might wish to marry. You don't tell your parents that you have met 'the one', instead you place a carrot on your father's shoe.

The youngest son of the family traditionally lives with his parents and his own family. This ensures that the parents have support as they get older.  A very different attitude to many western families.

I remember much more about these little details of daily life than the exploits of a fourteenth century adventurer. OH will have taken in all of the history and added it to his already extensive personal library of historical facts. I blame Mrs Newsome, my secondary school history teacher. She has a lot to answer for. And unlike most of my teachers I remember her name, and what she looked like. Short, with orange hair......

​

I was struck by the cleanliness and feeling of safety in Uzbekistan. No litter. No no-go areas. Street cleaners with hand made brooms wherever we travelled.

​I felt very safe. A testament to the honesty of locals is the way in which street stalls are wrapped up at night; a simple cloth and some string. I yearn for a return to such values here in the UK. 

I have so many photos, so I will leave you with just a few favourites. My next task is to create a book of our trip before I forget names and places. 

There is work to do!

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