Anglesey

Drawing Place: A Talk with Drawing Projects UK

What a pleasure it was to be invited by Anita Taylor of Drawing Projects UK and The Trinity Buoy Wharf Drawing Prize to take part in an online discussion about drawing place, alongside fellow shortlistee Peter Sutton. The video of the talk, including Peter Sutton’s wonderful talk too, will appear on the Drawing Projects UK soon. I’ll keep you posted.

The following is a transcript of that talk:

“Good evening everybody, I’m really delighted and grateful to be here tonight with Anita and Peter. Thank you for inviting me, Anita.

I am speaking to you from my studio at the end of my garden in Oxford, but I’d like to invite you to join me on an exploration of the wonderful island of Anglesey, a place rich with history, full of the remnants of past ages, fascinating landscapes (natural and manmade) and in particular an old railway line running 17 and a half miles from Gaerwen in the south, up through the middle of the island to the small harbour town of Amlwch on the north coast.  

I first encountered the line, during a family holiday to Anglesey in 2018, and since then it has exerted a powerful fascination for me, to the point that it became the subject of my recently completed MFA in Fine Art at Oxford Brookes University. Exploration of landscape and industrial history is one of a number of personal interests that I have drawn into my art practise. I also find myself drawn to islands, too. I think it’s to do with that sense of marginality, escape and distancing from the centre; and I enjoy finding stories that are untold or overlooked, perhaps hiding in plain sight.

A little bit of history may be helpful to start with.

The line opened in the 1860s. It lost its passenger services during the “Beeching Cuts” of the 1960s, but freight trains continued to run up until 1992. Since then, it has fallen into disuse, but the tracks and infrastructure remain substantially in place, albeit subject to the passage of time and progressive reclamation by nature. A group of volunteers is now working to clear the line with a view to restoring it to use, advocating for its restoration as part of the current national debate about reopening old railway lines. It is a vibrant, sometimes fractious, debate. The line stands at a crossroads, or perhaps I should say a junction, right now because it has several different potential futures as well as a real sense of history to it.

So whilst on that family holiday in 2018, I was very intrigued see this old line meandering around the contours, settlements and lakes of Anglesey on maps at first, and then glimpsed on the landscape through trees and many weeds. I was struck by this idea that a map is just a snapshot or a representation of a place at a given moment in time. Maps don’t set out to record every  quality of a place, its atmosphere or history, or the ways in which places change over time -  that is not their purpose -  so I started to think about the railway line as existing in time too. It is, or was at the time of the drawing, 156 years old.

I started to think about the railway line as a drawing on a landscape and in time too. But I was always aware, from the very beginning, that my subject was an elusive one. Maps helped me to think about the obvious, literal quality of being a line that is inherent in a railway line , including on a map, and so it seemed to me that a drawing was the perfect way to think further about this.  I also wanted to think about the qualities of time, decay and endurance that I saw as important aspects of the place.

And really that is where the idea for “Timelines” originated.

It was completed in late 2019 and was one of my very first responses to the railway line. I made this drawing at home 200 miles away from Anglesey but this didn’t seem a problem to me because I was really thinking about those aspects of the line that are unseen and intangible.

To make the drawing, I had the idea to use the line’s mapped shape as a sort of motif and to use one line to represent one year in the life of the line from the beginnings of its construction in 1864 through to the present day. There is a strand in my work of the encoding and preserving of information, especially marginal information or information that is at risk of being lost or forgotten. I established a process for that too, a schematic plan on a spreadsheet so I could consistently and progressively move from softer to harder grades of pencil so that I could make the line become fainter as I worked left to right across the paper, to evoke a sense of a narrative of fading away or forgetting that is very apparent in the condition of the line today. I worked steadily ticking each line off on my plan as I went. And when I reached the line for the year 1992, when the trains stopped running, I swapped from a graphite pencil to a plastic stylus, so that I was making an even fainter mark; a trace, if you like, or a register of falling into stillness or silence, perhaps.

I should say also that the drawing is on tracing paper, which I chose for several reasons. Firstly, there was the purely practical reason that it allowed me to trace the line from the OS map. There is also something quite mundane or “low-status” about tracing paper. I felt that worked quite well for this rather unglamorous, overlooked railway line. But more than that, I really enjoy the way tracing paper responds to the pressure of a pencil tip by recording a clear indentation. It also has that quality of translucence, that captures or reflects light, in a different way to standard papers. This helps makes the multiple lines of this drawing create a visible sense of contour so that they appear to coalesce into their own sort of imagined landscape. Perhaps partly because we all recognise the convention of contour lines from maps, the eye reads the drawing as a having a topography of its own.  

Following on from this idea of topography and space, one of the reasons that drawing is so important in my practise is that it opens up a space for thinking, and I think that is true for many drawing artists. The drawing took about four hours so I had plenty of time for reflection as I worked. Thinking and making seem to go hand in hand when I’m drawing, and this was particularly the case for me with “Timelines”. The following are some examples of the thoughts that occurred to me as I worked:

  • The idea of systems, regularity and repetition that is typical of a railway line – trains going along the line, tracing and retracing the fixed route of the railway lines. The process of creating this drawing became, I found, a way of enacting something similar by making my own journeys down the line, as a train would, and really helped connect me to it.

  • This enabled me to connect to the idea of memory in the drawing – memory of the line and also the memory of my mark-making itself.

  • This lead me to thinking about lines are recoding something: grooves on a record, or growth lines in stump of a felled tree, or sound waves which are of course other ways of storing and preserving information. So I found a sense of reverberation, resonance or echoes in the drawing, that made me think more about how the line was perhaps less silent and more resonant than I had first thought. (They could be geological or seismic movements, too – Anglesey is geologically very significant but that’s another story).

Thanks in large part to “Timelines”, all of these things were aspects of the railway line that I went on to explore in other work in the following year or more. I wasn’t consciously planning for these outcomes, but I discovered them in the process of thinking and making put together in the creation of this drawing. (I am a fan of the work of the anthropologist Tim Ingold, who writes very powerfully in this area, as well as on the subject of lines.)

But I think the drawing also enabled me to connect deeply with what I saw as the qualities of this place that I was exploring – not, here, in the sense of a visual representation of what the railway looks like, (though I have done that in other work) but in a way that connected with my reaction to its intangible, felt and unseen qualities. And when I was able to physically be near or on the line (which of course turned out to be much harder to achieve in 2020 than I expected) I felt able to connect to the railway through the thinking I had done in “Timelines”. And importantly, the line had opened out, if you like, leaving the map and acquiring  a real and rich sense of place, resonance and interest.

If you are interested in finding out a little bit more about my work in response to the Amlwch railway line, please visit my website which is www.markrclay.co.uk There is a gallery there of a my wider body of work including this other drawings but I have also written quite extensively on aspects of the railway line, and my exploration of it, in the blog that is also on the site.

Thank you very much for listening.

2020 Trinity Buoy Wharf Drawing Prize - opened in Dundee

Updated: 17 November 2020.

Things have been so busy in October and November that I’ve not even had to the time to mention the 2020 Trinity Buoy Wharf Drawing Prize exhibition, which is now open and touring the UK and which, I am thrilled and honoured to say ,includes a drawing from my MFA body of work: “Timelines” inspired by the disused railway to Amlwch on the island of Anglesey (Ynys Mon).

Image: the artist with “Timelines”. at Drawing Projects UK, Trowbridge, part of the 2020 Trinity Buoy Wharf Drawing Prize exhibition.

Image: the artist with “Timelines”. at Drawing Projects UK, Trowbridge, part of the 2020 Trinity Buoy Wharf Drawing Prize exhibition.

I’m honoured that my work has made it into the show alongside so many absolutely stunning examples of contemporary drawing from right across the UK and internationally. The photo shows me next to “Timelines” on the opening day of the show at the very wonderful Drawing Projects UK, in Trowbridge, Wiltshire, a mecca for contemporary drawing and practitioners and a place I firmly resolve to visit regularly from now on. The visit was a joy and an inspiration. It was so exciting to feel among my tribe and to meet Professor Anita Taylor, founder of Drawing Projects UK and leader of the TBWDP.

However, the Trowbridge iteration of the show has now closed and the exhibition has now moved to Scotland, opening on the 13 November and running right through to 19 December at the Cooper Gallery at the University of Dundee.

For full details of the exhibition touring programme, please visit: http://trinitybuoywharfdrawingprize.drawingprojects.uk/index.php/news

Above: Detail of “Timelines, showing how the tracing paper preserves “tracks” of the railway line to Amlwch, strongly suggesting contours in a landscape. Shown on a wooden surface for clarity. Copyright: Mark Clay 2020

Above: Detail of “Timelines, showing how the tracing paper preserves “tracks” of the railway line to Amlwch, strongly suggesting contours in a landscape. Shown on a wooden surface for clarity. Copyright: Mark Clay 2020

"Rhoddion". On Generosity - Part Three

In July 2020, I was finally able to return to the island of Anglesey and the Amlwch railway line to complete “Rhoddion”, a project that has lain dormant during the long months of the coronavirus lockdown. It was the culmination of my reflection on the idea of generosity, as well as forming a part of my final body of work for my Masters in Fine Art at Oxford Brookes University.

IMG_1838.jpg

As always, it was wonderful to be back on the island and to find the line once again. Though apparently little changed from the first time I had explored it in Autumn 2019, these visits have always emphasised to me the slow, relentless and largely invisible process of decay that is affecting much of the 17 miles of the route. It’s a process that never ceases, despite the valiant efforts of those seeking to restore it.

My job on this visit was to replace seven track ballast stones that I have gilded with copper leaf and kept with me at home all through the coronavirus lockdown. My plan was to replace them in locations along the whole length of the line, and to leave them to their fate - unmarked, unnamed and unexplained. Everything else apart from the simple act of returning the stones to the line - a simple, silent act of generosity, I hope - seemed unnecessary.

From this process, which took me approximately a day and a half to achieve, I generated a series of seven photographs as a documentary record, designed with my MFA final show in mind. They, along with some of my recorded thoughts, can be seen below:


Recording 1: Prelude (4mins 20s):

In which I introduce my project from a lonely overbridge not far from Gaerwen, and make something of false start.


Recording 2: Stone One (2mins 40s)

In which I find my way onto the railway line and place the first of my seven Rhoddion stones in the company of some indifferent sheep

“Rhoddion” - Stone no.1 - Mark Clay (2020)


Recording 3: The Rain and The Road (3mins 10s)

Once again, my attempt to place a stone comes to nothing, leaving me to contemplate the rain and the noise of roads.


Recording 4: Stone Two (2mins 50s)

The second “Rhoddion” Stone is put in place, despite water and warnings.

“Rhoddion” - Stone no.2 - Mark Clay (2020)


Recording 5: Stone Three (2mins 38s)

A silent and thought-provoking location for Stone Three, where I ponder ideas of access and trespass.

“Rhoddion” - Stone no.3 - Mark Clay (2020)


Recording 6: Stone Four (3mins 5s)

Resuming my series of little pilgrimages on the morning of day two, finding the path appears as difficult as finding the railway.

“Rhoddion” - Stone no.4 - Mark Clay (2020)

Recording 7: Stone Five (2mins 5s)

Gathering a few fragments of broken railway sleeper leads to a reflection on relics and their significance.

“Rhoddion” - Stone no.5 - Mark Clay (2020)


Recording 8: Stone Six (2mins)

Reflecting on how the railway, the roads and the paths of Anglesey dance around each other.


Recording 9: Stone Seven (2mins 45 s)

The end of the line, in every sense. At the end, there is nothing but the wind.


Embed Block
Add an embed URL or code. Learn more
 

An Uncertain Journey

As my MFA in Fine Art approaches its conclusion, I am emerging from a period of enthusiastic investigation of the possibilities and potential of typeface and typewriters. And I have been asking myself how can I push this yet further.

It has seemed to me that, in the context of my current project, a typewriter has given me a tool to access and investigate the following:

  • Mechanical, repetitive process (and sound)

  • A parallel and complimentary form of “old” technology that was once cutting edge but now carries a sense of nostalgia and, perhaps, eccentricity; the same can be said of railways, too, I think – especially disused or lost ones. (And yet, as my projects seek to argue, there is also richness and value and potential in them nonetheless!)

  • A limited set of options (compared to modern word processing, computing and digital printing technology) – something stripped back to basics, simple and rather “retro” – that quality of older technology again.

  • Something decidedly analogue and physical (compared to the digital and the electronic) that again chimes nicely with railways and, critically, their construction, preservation and restoring. It’s all done by hand (manual labour)  in both cases (typewriting, working to clear the Amlwch line).

These are all valuable things to investigate, as I believe I have done. So, how can I now take this further? How can I start to mix these “typewriter” qualities with other strands of my work. How can I think it deeper and further?

IMG_20200709_101411879.jpg

A wander around some of the old railway sites of Oxford took me recently to Grandpont Bridge (above), on the Thames. It used to carry railway lines to a long-gone gasworks and other industrial sites. No trains have passed over it for many a year. It may even date back to the days of Brunel’s broad gauge.  It is now a rather over-engineered pedestrian bridge, but still very grand and imposing.

Again, I was struck by ideas of the mechanical and the repetitive, this time as I pondered the thousands of rivets inserted in the great Victoria girders. I was also struck by the rust and patina. It struck me as the very slowest form of decay and dissolution that I felt I could imagine in a human time frame.

How could I apply this sense of dissolution in the context of typewritten work? I wanted to think about whether I could simultaneously point to decay in thinking about typewriting. It seemed right to try to balance the two, since my work seems so full of these dichotomies (I am tempted to say parallel tracks).

These thoughts percolated through to beginning to think about dots: tiny fragments of line, if you will, that also point to dust, smoke, sand and particles – things falling to bits/dissolving, or perhaps things falling together/coming back into focus. It seemed fitting that it all seemed so loose, ill-defined and hard to grasp.

As is so often the case, I needed to think this through with a drawing.

Choosing a piece of tracing paper, for no other reason than that it has been a common feature in my work and also adds to the idea of “tracing” a disappearing thing (and a surface with its own contingency, fragility, translucency) I sat down to draw with no real sense of where I was going. Just a basic idea of turning type to dust.

First steps: tracing the seven railway stations of the Amlwch line. A route to follow, or to search for. I used fibre tip marker pens of varying sizes between 0.05cm and 0.8cm.

First steps: tracing the seven railway stations of the Amlwch line. A route to follow, or to search for. I used fibre tip marker pens of varying sizes between 0.05cm and 0.8cm.

I thought I might use pencil or charcoal but I felt it was too messy and imprecise, even though they are really “dust” (soot, carbon). I didn’t want to lose control to that extent. I drew on, tracing on the typed letters imperfectly (to suggest imperfect processes and gradual dissolution) and then worked to build a “cloud” of dots around the frail and failing text to make it even more contingent and on the point of dissolution. I laid down more and more dots to reinforce this, eventually going much further with this than I originally imagined, in order to make the legibility of the typeface even more uncertain.

That really was my only impulse other than to see how the drawing turned out.  I was still not sure where I was going with this, or whether I even liked what was emerging. I felt like I should just surrender to the process and allow the drawing to be what it would be.

However, there came a point where I finally understood what I was doing, as if the dots were coalescing into an independent idea beyond my own agency. This is the final, completed piece:

“Uncertain Journey”

Completed 10 July 2020. Pen on tracing paper. H263 mm x W410mm

"Uncertain Journey" (Mark Clay, July 2020.)

So what is this then?

As I drew, around a dozen potential titles for this piece came to me as it began to resolve itself in the making, and I jotted them down for consideration at the end. It was a way of indexing my thinking and my reactions to what I was doing, I believe. Other titles, each resonating with some aspect of my continuing research and emerging body of work, were:

  • “Every journey is made of a million tiny steps”

  • Make/Unmake/Remake

  • Coming Apart/Coming Together

  • A Million Small Acts

  • A Miliion Tiny Acts of Remembrance

  • Don’t Forget to Remember

  • Uncertain Destinations

I finally chose “Uncertain Journey” , a title that reflects both the outcome and the journey of this piece.

The process of laying down the dots (once the lettering was done) was instinctual and implied a real sense of surrender to the mechanical, rhythmic and repetitive process of the dotmaking. It felt, again, like the process of riveting in its obsessive repetition; albeit on a quieter and less industrial scale. And it felt as though the shapes and textures were finding their own form, independent of me. This was a highly mindful and thought-provoking piece to do. Isn’t the act of drawing so often like that?

There is, in the final drawing, a pleasing ambivalence about its nature, which I enjoy and value. Speaking to others for their reaction on what it is (always stipulating there I felt there was no single right answer), I was struck by the following principal reactions:

  • wind on sand at low tide

  • tides of the water

  • steam, smoke or dust

  • tree roots, trunk, branches and leave

  • the murmurations of starlings

I particularly like that these are all natural phenomena and that they are perceived beyond or above the lettering which seems no longer the central premise of the work – a nice visual metaphor for forgetting, and for the gradual reclamation of the line by nature, perhaps.

I feel sure that this piece is, not for the first time, about being on the fine line between forgetting and remembering; and that something as concrete and humanly regulated as a journey down a railway line becomes something as complex, uncertain as these phenomena beyond human regulation (but nonetheless regulated according to the rigorous system of physics).

That all fits quite nicely with my overall approach to this project as I consider it in July 2020, nearly four months after the coronavirus made this project, too, into another kind of uncertain journey.

Thoughts On Binding

The following is a documentation of some of the thinking and reflection that occurred during a new phase of making, as I continue to build a body of work on the theme of the (disused) Amlwch railway line, on Anglesey. It centres on my use of copper thread as a binding material.

What is binding about?

I think of acts of care, preservation (e.g. Egyptian mummification), of recording and remembrance. A way to “re-member”, as in to put something back together again. At the same time, I think of natural binding: of bindweed and ivy that slowly entwines the Amlwch railway line in a slow, relentless act of reclamation and transformation.

So there is tension here, between:

1. The binding of care and preservation, the human intention to create, to preserve and to restore, to bring dead things back to life, and;

2. The binding of capture, control, the natural intention to change, replace, evolve.  New life growing out of the death of the old.

Is it even possible to reconcile the two in a piece of work, to place them alongside each other as I think is happening on the railway? As Tim Ingold might say, perhaps the making will show me how, might show me how to think by making….

So I take a piece of old sleeper slice and turn it in my hands, The cut edges are ostensibly smooth but I can feel the lines in the surface, both radial and circumferential. There are cracks in the body and at the edges of the wood, some from the time of the growing, and some from the time of the dying (rotting). I continue to turn the wood block over and over and a way of making comes to me from this.

Taking up fine copper thread, I combine it with the process of turning over and over. I follow the edges and contours of the piece of wood until I have bound it, but not obscured it. It seems to me, as I work, that the act of binding expresses a desire to protect and to support this old wood. To stop it coming apart. To “re-member” it:

The process flows on and so my ideas flow on with it. I keep going, taking this further and do something similar for all the remaining fragments from this “end of the sleeper” slice. The copper thread seems also to imply a spirit of reconnection, or restoration, of the wood, to the point before time, decay, and my intervention split it apart.

This end piece of wood brings me in mind of my idea of a piece called “Terminus”. The end. I had previously imagined doing it with a much larger piece of old rotted sleeper, but the coronavirus lockdown prevents me searching for one on the Amlwch railway line itself.

I am not done with this. This idea keeps me, and perhaps by extension this decaying railway, in the present tense. I take up another sleeper slice. What if I worked more closely with the grain and the lines of the wood? Is this a way, even, to bind those two halves of my thoughts on binding together. (Pun absolutely intended.)

It changes the way I do the binding. Not a relatively random reflex as in the previous pieces, but a more considered, exploratory, mindful approach. I too am progressively bound up by the idea and the process. The thread encloses the wood and it encloses me. too, in this repetitive act of making and thinking.

One hour later:

IMG_20200425_162300020.jpg

It feels like a mapping (back to my starting point – the OS map of Anglesey), an exploration, a re-discovery even, of the nature of these materials. Not an exact one, but a halting, partial, cautious and even risky one (the thread breaks several times as it catches and stretches). As I wind around the edges, notches and grooves the tightened thread makes tiny, metallic “plink” sounds like the plucking of a harp string at the top of its range.  (I must record these.)

There. There it is. The idea of the “sounding of the line.”

I am so aware, by now, of the reflective and thoughtful nature of what I am now doing. It is slower, and more careful, too.  Perhaps even ritualistic: as in Ancient Egypt, with the mummification of dead pharaohs and their belongings, the act of binding (mummification) is an act of remembering and preserving things that are precious.

I think this railway is precious. And my acts of binding have enabled me to make that tangible.

IMG_20200426_121355321.jpg
104433339_605128213457969_9158391106413013316_o.jpg

On Generosity - Part Two

My thinking about generosity has developed some way since my previous post on the subject. From generosity I have moved to include the idea of a gift; or, more appropriately since my context is a railway line in North Wales, the Welsh language equivalent of gift: “rhodd”, or the even lovelier plural “rhoddion” - “gifts”).

To make these ideas tangible, I have been spending considerable time recently applying copper leaf gilding to some pieces of track ballast stone, borrowed from the Amlwch railway line and which I will return shortly. I have found the process of gilding to be both a thoughtful, quiet and delicate process, and also challenging. This is my first attempt at any sort of gilding, and these small palm-sized stones have not been the easiest surface to work with. All these qualities and experiences make the creation of these little “gifts” all the more fitting for me.

IMG_20200215_170529273.jpg

Why copper? It speaks to me of several things: the industrial heritage of Anglesey (especially the extraction of copper, principally from the nearby Parys Mountain copper mine); of memory of the past; and of the process of making protecting and preserving (copper bottoms of ships, or copper sheet roofing, for example).

In what way can these little copper jewels act as gifts? I have turned to poetry to enable me to think further about this. Poetry is an excellent way to distill, crystallise or concentrate your thinking. Having written several pages on the subject of late, and how it can relate to aspects of a disused railway line, I’ve now reached this working draft of my thoughts in poetry form.

IMG_20200223_084229_595.jpg

I am planning to return the stones (anonymously) to the line as “gifts” to be discovered in the future, perhaps by those working on the line as they clear it. Or perhaps they will disappear and never be seen again. Since entropy, decay and loss is an ultimate and inevitable consequence, even in the context of restoration, that will be OK too. The documentation of the gifts through photographs, and perhaps through this writing too, will be the artwork; at least as far as my MFA show is concerned. This blog post will form a part of it too, perhaps.

I’ve already tested the idea during my recent visit to Anglesey, placing one stone back on the line (temporarily) to test the visual impact of the stones and their resilience to the elements. They have the right kind of scale for my purposes, being variously invisible and visible. The next step will be to clarify my thoughts on the locations for the stones, and documentation of the work. There are seven stones in all, corresponding with the seven stations of the line, but this is just one idea I continue to work on.

IMG_20200218_125511645_HDR.jpg

On generosity

As I continue to think about my ongoing MFA research at the beginning of my final term (with the final degree show, in June, appearing on the horizon) I am thinking a great deal right now about generosity.

I’m not long back from the first two weeks of a professional placement at the wonderful Oriel Ynys Mon on the island of Anglesey in North Wales. There, the whole team made me feel extremely welcome and gave me a tremendous experience of two weeks of busy changeovers and exhibition installs. I was definitely the oldest work experience person they’ve ever had (!) and I’m very grateful indeed to the whole team for being so generous with their time, trust and knowledge.

IMG_20200113_131142121.jpg

But this is not the only example of generosity that I have found on Ynys Mon. Similarly generous to me have been the team at Lein Amlwch, and especially Walter Glyn Davies, for helping me to learn, discover and understand more about the railway line to Amlwch that they are working hard to restore and which is the subject of my MFA work and final show. Not only have they been very generous to me as a visiting artist offering nothing more than curiosity (and no ability to speak Welsh), but also they are being remarkably generous to this old railway line that has not seen a train since 1992.

Restoring a dormant 17-mile railway line is no easy task. “Every single inch”, says Walter Glyn, is “back-breaking and often heart-breaking”. And it’s being done by people who are unpaid volunteers, out in all weathers, and in the face of no small degree of opposition or indifference. Every rock, every weed, every sleeper and every inch of the line will need their generous spirit of optimism , determination and sheer hard work in order to achieve their goal of seeing trains run on the line again.

IMG_20191108_140443360.jpg

This makes me think about generosity in terms of my own artistic response, and perhaps of art in general. It’s not generally a word applied to artists, but I find myself asking why not. There are plenty of examples of artists being accused of being appropriative or exploitative of their subject (here’s a very recent example from last month) and I’m very mindful of this.

So how do I reflect the spirit of generosity that I have discovered, in my work and also in my approach? There are some simple principles that I am adhering to:

  • Don’t take anything away from the line unless it is of zero (or marginal) use and I have permission. The line belongs to Network Rail, after all, and Lein Amwlch have a license and lease that permits them to work there.

  • Return those items wherever possible.

  • Don’t seek to impose my own artistic or authorial view on the railway line, its stories and its people. The future of the railway line is not mine to prejudge or predict. Rather, act as witness, collector or reflector of what the line and its people tells me.

  • Listen, don’t speak. The last thing the people of Anglesey want or need is another Englishman telling them what to do or think.

  • Credit and collaborate. There are good examples of this in art too - Sol Lewitt for example.

I have some practical ideas too… and will share them again soon.

Diolch!
Cheers!