By Michael Cook
This is the place where I grew up.
It was a large house with a large barn and a number of outbuildings. It was once a farm, and my family had been (until a few years before my birth) market gardeners. My home was surrounded by fields, orchards, the garden merging with the fields; there was hardly a distinction between cabbage and rose, rockery and furrow. There were no longer any animals (other than cats and dogs), but there were stables, a cow shed and a pigsty, brick and stone housing musty air and memories of animals, buildings with names so prosaic that they become poetry, trap place, rhubarb house, onion chamber. Some work was still done in the fields, mostly by tenants, and there were tractors and potato sorters and other pieces of machinery, and many other signs of farm life, piles of old sacks, bales of hay and many tools which I never knew the use of. Not a working farm then, but a farm trudging home from the fields. A farm, tired and dusty from work, lying down to take its rest.
There is a lane that runs below the house, and I spent many hours walking its way. At one end of the lane, where it joins a small hamlet, is a holy well. At the other is a long bridge, an ancient causeway, and if you go further, following the river, there are a series of arches carved into the rock where a hermit once lived, which we visited often. But everything, barn as much as the saints cave, puddle as much as holy well, was imbued with a sense of mystery, a beyondness. Hedges bounded the lane, an avenue of mysteries, at once human-made and entirely natural. Once, walking there with my mother, I saw a small bird hopping about in the hedge, negotiating the hawthorn. I was afraid for the bird, that it might hurt itself, but my mother said the thorns protected the bird and her nest from the fox and the magpie. Something blossomed in my mind, and I knew the thorns were good and beautiful. Pointing to the silent white trumpets of the bindweed, she said it strangled the other hedgerow plants. Another unfurling in my mind, and I knew that things fought for survival. I remember struggling to free the cow parsley from its tendrils.
The youngest of six children, I spent a lot of time alone, hiding from my older brother. It was so easy to withdraw in that place, to hide in cellar or loft, behind bales of hay in the barn, or to run to the fields, to disappear like a hare into a furrow of dark earth, or to sit beneath a large tree, hidden from view by its wide trunk, the tall grasses. I became an expert at hiding. But I also learned something beautiful, how an arc of foliage consoles, how a tree gives sanctuary and solace.
I drew and drew and drew. I drew with my finger, with a pencil, with a ball-point pen, with crayons and felt-tips. I drew with my mother’s lipstick on the reed-patterned wallpaper of my parents’ bedroom. A little later, I drew anthropomorphic fish, insects mowing the lawn, ostriches getting married in top hats, and above all, I drew faces. With my head bent at a right angle over my pad, my uncontrollable mop of hair itself like random brown brushstrokes, I drew never-ending patterns, swirls and arabesques. I got others to draw squiggles so I could make them into something, turning the page around until I saw it – a mouse, a kite-flyer, a dragon – magic! I drew at every available opportunity, obsessively, because drawing was for me creation ex nihilo, order from chaos, and the one thing I could do really well, where I excelled, where I was in control and lost and free. It became for me a language, a speaking without saying, and was a gift to me, the pleasure of which is to always give it back, over and over, and receive it again, ten times, a hundredfold.
My father was a gentle man who enjoyed poetry, valued warmth, fell easily into sleep, and had a love of cats. He also felt deeply the suffering of the world, and aged twelve informed his mother that he was an atheist; God’s only excuse was that He didn’t exist, and he pointed to the tooth and claw of nature as proof. A good Swedenborgian, she advised him that if he couldn’t believe in God then believing in love would do just as well, being the same thing. He remained a lifelong and vocal disbeliever. Faith then was not part of my upbringing, yet as a child I felt dissatisfied with unbelief, and came home from junior school one day with a crucifix I had made from clay, which must have puzzled both of my parents greatly, signalling as it did the reversal of my father’s path. There, in the clay man hung on the clay tree, the thorns were absurdly entwined with hope, the nails driven into forgiveness. I sometimes wonder how much I really believe, but at the very least it’s an idea, an image, aperson, that won’t let go of me. In the saints I have found images of human tenderness towards creation that make no rational sense, going far beyond mere ecology, as the Sermon on the Mount goes infinitely beyond ethics. Kevin hatches a blackbird’s eggs in his prayerful hand, and Giles stands between an arrow and a hart, taking the blow. There’s Francis, of course. His namesake Pope has said we must first love creation for its own sake, otherwise our concern will always stop at utility, and he is surely right. We must look to the saints and regard their naivety with wonder.
I grew, and stayed, and stayed, then met and learned to love another, and left. Made a home together in town, had neighbours, a narrow garden. No nightjars, but blackbirds. A pond with frogs. No hares, but brazen foxes that slink between the two long hedges.
A few years ago my mother died, and last September my father, suddenly fearful of the God he’d never believed in, followed. So now, with some trepidation, we’re preparing to move back to the family home. Builders are busy uncovering all the signs of age in the house my parents wanted to cover, carpet is coming off brick floors, beams are being exposed to light. The stable which once housed the horse will soon house my paintings; the stable, so long empty of animals, will once again come alive, but now with leaping or boxing hares, prowling foxes, patterned nightjars, and other creatures in tangles of leaf and thorn. With figures holding and being held by the earth, and saints foolishly making nests of their hands.
31 Responses
First of all, I have to say that I was initially attracted on this blog by Michael’s paintings. His empathy with the natural world is evident in not only those chosen to illustrate his biographical writing but also with the several pieces of work that I’ve bought over the years. However, the very personal writing here is even more moving. I’ve known Michael since he was a pupil of mine as a 10 year old boy in my Year 5 class at Primary school and the insight he has into his own character is something that I recognise from first hand experience. He writes an honest appraisal of his early life and how his close family life has affected his artistic talent. And what a talent! I gave him his own wall in class to decorate as he saw fit and even when he was 10 years old his talent was more than apparent and by encouraging it, Michael made rapid progress in all other subject areas. He learned to love reading and literature plays a great influence on his life and work. I love the sinuous lines he uses in his depiction of the natural world and his work inspires me to look and appreciate the world around us, especially in his beloved Melbourne and the Cook Homestead and its environs on the edge of this small, rural town. I’m looking forward to seeing his new work after his return to familiar boyhood surroundings that have so influenced his entire life.
Yes, that clay crucifix was made in your class David, I’m wondering what age I would have been exactly? And yes, you gave me my first exhibition, a wall of my own, decorated with dragons and characters from Narnia. Hard to believe now that I stuggled so with reading – moving all my books is going to be a nightmare! Thanks for all your words of encouragment both then and now. I too am looking forward to seeing how the move back will affect the work.
You were 10 years young, Michael.
That’s young to be fashioning crucifixes, and slightly worries even me!
This is a very moving piece of writing by a wonderful artist. Thank you for publishing it.
Thank you Julie, am so pleased with this blog. I think you’re my most loyal tweeter!
That is an insanely beautiful piece of writing Michael – why am I not surprised?! Let us know once you have moved, would love to come out and visit you both and see your work again… and the place that is so deeply rooted in its inspiration. (Do you still have Tree Chapel? I have been trying to resist but the image stays with me – what size?) Bella x
Thank you Bella, I’m really pleased CreatureKind saw the potential for a piece of writing on the genesis of the imagery in my work. And we’d love you to visit – maybe when the dust has settled a bit (I mean literal dust not metaphorical!). ‘Tree Chapel’ is available, the actual image is 22cm square, not yet mounted. Best to Mark.
You write so beautifully and with such emotion. Your words pierce the heart and let the light in. I feel something similar for nature and its creatures, seeing and connecting to the Universal energy force reflected in every rock and feather. Blessings to you for your move back to your birth home and may your creativity continue to be inspired by its surroundings…much love…
Thank you Taryn. Your own work speaks of the magic and sacredness of the natural world, and there are lots of connecting lanes that run bewteen our two paths (and our creative work) and methinks they lead to the same sunlit clearing. Meet you there! In the meantime, do come and see us when we’ve moved.
I’m feeling even more smug than usual about owning the man with the bowl and the blackbird – although also acquisitive, as I’d also like to be the person who owns the fox (though, man, bird and fox all seem to be saying ‘who are you kidding’ and denying that that they can be so pinned down). What a nice piece Michael – it would be good to see photos of the brick floors and exposed beams. xx
I’ll send pics, my new studio is in what was once a cheese-making room, the finished product being sent down the Trent to the troops of the Napoleonic wars. I’m going to have to watch my head as the beams come roughly to my nose. The stable is currently full of builders materials, hopefully it might have some paintings in it by the end of the year.Man, bird, fox… makes me think of ‘foxes have holes, the birds have their nests, but the son of man has nowhere to lay his head’.
Excellent! I am now keen to show the young of my tribe what a Napoleonic cheese making room looks like.
Dear MichaelHow truly wonderful and honest is this piece of writing…matching your artwork and indeed yourself…love this x
Thank you Carol, hope to see you sometime soon.
Dear MichaelYou send us details of your exhibitions and time takes over and we don’t make contact. Now I have to say that these words are so meaningfully simple – a life told with the gentle affection of a very talented artist. All is wrapped together to convey the almost tentative view that you feel for creation and the wonder of it all. The “rooms” in your garden have always seemed to me to be a reflection of the two of you.
Please let us know when we can see the all new environment and how you will make it your own.
love to you both
Carole and Richard
Thank you for your comments, and hope you are both well. We’re all bad at keeping in touch, it has to be said! Of course you will both be very welcome to come and see us, we will let you know when we move.We’ll be sad to leave our garden here, perhaps especially the grapevine which is just coming into bud. But I know the new (old) garden will be lovely too, eventually. Much more birdlife there, and at the moment you can hear the lambs in fields nearby. I have a feeling that I’ll be working a bit more from life than I do currently, more studies of hedges and trees, then filtering them back into the imaginative work.
Thank you for sharing this special insight into your life and work. It’s a truly beautiful piece of writing, where your spirit shines out, just as in your paintings.Your ‘new home’ sounds idyllic, although I thought your house and garden in Derby quite magical too. I do hope that we will be able to visit you when you are fully settled in. I still have thoughts about the badger piece! Is he still available or gone to a new home?
All good wishes, Elizabeth
Not quite idyllic – a great deal of dust at the moment! But it is a lovely spot, and o course you’ll be welcome to visit. Badger is currently out at a gallery in the Cotswolds, but may be returning at the end of May, changing some work there. I’ll let you know if he moves back to Derbyshire. He’s a subject I must return to anyway. And I’m still thinking about some of your lovely, artful lettering for he new house…
Your blog is beautifully moving Michael, full with magic colour, light and atmosphere – as are your paintings; and with a tender heart too xx
Thank you Janine, I think you would like the work CreatureKind do, I know to you that all living things are deserving of our respect. I was particularly proud of fitting sixteen years of life here into just over forty words!
Beautiful and moving. Just as Michael’s appreciation of the spiritual, woven through nature, speaks through his paintings. I’m honoured to exhibit his art.
And I’m very happy to have found a gallery that celebrates the tradition of English Romanticism that my work is a latter day part of.
I knew it would be good when it came up after clicking the link. Thank you for sharing story so far – looking forward to future chapters. If you need any assistance moving/dusting etc let us know.Art, and words too – such talent. Magic Michael letting it shine
Actually we may the services of a denrologist, to establish the age / origin of a big beam in the kitchen…
Paul, you and your art enrich our lives.We love you.Lots of love and huggles
Elsie, the not so little drears and those creeetures xxxxx
Now you’re making me blush! Love to you and all the creatures in your life (but especially that Milo with his silky ears) xx
It’s taken me a day or two to reply to your lovely blog, Michael; it’s so enchanting I hardly dare try and put my response into words. You are a consummate artist in both words and images: reading your description is like being taken for a captivating walk with you through your life – or maybe round a gallery showing images of much-loved landscape, creatures, and portraits of special people. All is given an added dimension by your clear-eyed sharing of your feelings and thoughts in response to the world you inhabit. Your work of re-creation in restoring the house is a reflection of the transformative luminescence which I find in so many of your paintings. I can’t wait to make a pilgrimage to Melbourne and see this special place for myself, when you’re settled in and ready to share its grace with an occasional visitor. I promise not to come and disrupt any artistic process ( or any more hard work on the house)!
Thank you Ros, its been a pleasure to collaborate with you on a number of projects, and I hope that will continue, and you will always be welcome at the new/old place.CreatureKind have been generous in allowing me a space to write, it was interestng to try and give some shape to that, and surprising even to me to see how so much that recurs in my work has its origin in that place. It was also just the right moment to think about it all…
I’m delighted this is now on your website, Michael: it moves me every time I read it, and I’m sure it’ll be an inspiration to others who read it too. What a beautiful evocation of your life and art – something to treasure.
Beautiful artwork… Love your use of colours…