Mr & Mrs

Photography by Fiona Maclay

My brother got married on Saturday.

They said 'I do' in an Elizabethan hall set amongst the rolling hills of Shropshire's Church Stretton. The room was full to the brim with friends and family, perched on thick wooden chairs or on long wooden benches, there to share and celebrate in their marriage vows. The ceremony was beautiful but relaxed -the registrar checked, with a giggle, that she was pronouncing Ailsa's name correctly part-way through the service, and the readings (sonnets by John Donne and Shakespeare performed by close friends) received a warm round of applause from the guests - the latter I have never experienced at a wedding. As with all weddings, 'You may now kiss the bride' was welcomed with applause and general exclamations of happiness, but I have never heard a room erupt with such sound as it did on Saturday; the applause was full and thick and loud - every single person in that room was overjoyed that these two wonderful people were now married.

I could go on for hours about the whole day - the ceremony, the cream tea, the Middle Eastern Wedding Breakfast (a very personal touch as both bride and groom lived and worked in the Middle East); the Scottish musicians on stilts, the Keilidh, the speeches; how beautiful the bride looked, how handsome my brother looked, how the ushers lost a frisbee in the trees before the day had even started...

But what I would like to share on here is how home-made and personal the wedding was. It was an old fashioned sort of wedding that didn't cost thousands and thousands of pounds - it wasn't over the top, or excessive. It was perfect, and a real representation of the couple - a factor that I think a lot of people forget when planning a wedding.

The foundation for such a wedding was laid as soon as Adam decided to propose. One of Ailsa's closest friends is a very talented jeweller so she and Adam secretly planned and forged the engagement ring; she has now also made both of their wedding bands. My brother (a man of many talents!) then designed and produced their invitations - as literature graduates with floor-to-ceiling books they decided to design it as though the front cover of a book. This theme then ran through the wedding, with each table at the breakfast being named after Penguin book editions.

For the day itself, my mother had created bunting made out of children's picture books; my sister and father (who are both designers) designed and illustrated the order of service, the seating plan, and the room allocations; Ailsa's brother had written all of the place names for the Wedding Breakfast; the mother of the bride had not only made the main wedding cake, but also made an additional 8 cakes (all of which were exceptionally tasty!); and Ailsa's step-dad, who is a gardener by trade, lovingly grew and then arranged every single flower in the wedding -vases were placed all around the hall, and the groomsmen and fathers wore single orange flowers in their button holes. I was also very honoured to add a little family touch to their wedding, and sung them down the aisle as part of a quartet. The ushers and family arrived early to pitch up the marquee, hang fairy lights, and set up sound equipement.

The day reminded me of my parent's wedding - not that I was around for that, but I have heard many stories and used to love looking at the photos as a child. My mum made her own wedding dress, and all of the bridesmaid's dresses; my Uncle Bob was the photographer (yes I actually have an Uncle Bob...); my Grandpa's friends were bell-ringers so their wedding present to my parents was the ringing of the bells; my mum's sister made the wedding cake; another friend of my Grandpa's was a chauffeur so offered his services and his car; and my Nana made the buffet food. My parents were young Art students in the 70s (see below!) so didn't have much of a budget - they weren't from very wealthy families either. Everyone chipped in in-kind for their wedding, they had a simple day surrounded by friends and family, they went to the Isle of Wight for their honeymoon, and they have been married for 36 years...

My brother's wedding, as I'm sure was the same with my parent's wedding, was full of warmth and love. In years to come I won't remember the exact flowers that were in the vases or whether they had fairy lights on the marquee or not. What I will remember is how happy my brother looked - how absolutely besotted he was with his recently proclaimed wife. I'll remember that, so full of love, my sister-in-law struggled to get through her vows, and was supported by a gentle squeeze from her groom.

Home grown, nature's own

As I mentioned in my 'Moving Home' post I currently live in the centre of Birmingham. It is a beautiful part of Birmingham, and very central; it is surrounded by swanky accountancy firms, train stations, and Victorian brick factories. In one direction the sound of metal work and machinery cuts over car engines, in the other, church bells toll every Monday night. If you turn right from the front door and walk for 10 minutes you will reach the central hub and bustle of Birmingham Bull Ring; however, if you turn left and walk for 10 minutes buildings will become gradually more and more disused, on the brink of falling apart, being held together only by the Pawn Shop sign that's recently been hung.

I love how strange and disparate Birmingham is, but I miss the hills. I grew up, you see, in the beautiful surroundings of Shropshire. I walked to school, I worked as a waitress in the local restaurant that used to be a coach station, I would visit the market with mum and dad on Saturdays and visit the library on the way home. Even as a teenager I was happy in my own company, and would actively avoid the main pathway home - instead I would cross under the motorway bridge, up the little muddy bank, over the rickety wooden bridge with the missing plank, and would then follow the woodland path until the I reached the top of my road. If I wasn't expected home by a certain time, I'd keep going and head towards the Ercall - to the woodlands and horses and fresh air.

As you can imagine, moving from one to the other was somewhat of a shock - some good, some uncertain. For a starters, it took me about 3 months to realise that places were still open and thriving past 5pm or, even better, they were actually open on a Sunday. 

I always felt very close to nature, and it holds a huge importance in my belief system and philosophy of life. So, what to do in a city? We live in a small group of flats with a communal courtyard/garden area and we are lucky to have a fantastic gardner who keeps the place looking beautiful. Trailing up the Victorian brick factory at the back of the flats are deep red roses and sweet magnolia; between each flat are thriving flower beds with poppies, lavender, foxgloves, bluebells, chinese lanterns, and yellow roses. In fact, we have more flowers here than we did in my garden as a child in Shropshire.

But I wanted to contribute something myself, to feel I am having some input and a connection with the small area of nature surrounding me in the heart of the second city. So off we trailed to Homebase one bank holiday Monday - I had a fairly clear idea in mind so it didn't take us long. We drove home (I had to sit in the back of the car cradling the apricot tree in order for Joe to see out of the windows and use the gear stick), and then I spent a happy afternoon "gardening". 

I made sure to place broken crockery and large stones in the bottom of my pots to allow the water an exit route. I carefully and lovingly planted my new additions - an apricot tree (small!), a small lavender shrub, rosemary, chives and thyme. I repotted the plants that the old tenant had left, and realised that after clearing some weeds we had a mint plant too! I arranged the pots on our little stone porch (not sure you can call it a porch really - it's approximately 2 metres in length and 0.5 metres in depth and is simply large stone slabs outside our side door). I look after them and water them and have even asked for a watering can for my birthday (currently using a mixing jug each night...).

We only have 2.5 metres of ground that we can call our own on the edge of the courtyard, in the middle of the city. But with those few metres we are growing beautiful flowers and useful herbs - I've already used the rosemary in soup, thyme in a homemade sausage plait, chives in a salad, and we've made mint tea using a handful of home-grown mint leaves, a tea strainer and hot water - super easy!

Whether you live surrounded by miles of beautiful countryside or whether you can see directly into your neighbours flat from your living room and hear the constant hum and guffaw and exhaust pipes , you can still create and enjoy a little bit of nature. I've grown very attached to my stone-slab "porch" and can't wait to enjoy our first apricot!

Empty Orchestra - Universe of Sound

Universe of Sound

'Universe of Sound' is a music installation currently taking place in the old municipal bank, Birmingham. Normally when I hear the word 'installation' I think 'not for me thank you'; I try to appreciate all forms of art, but often the realm of modern art and installations are beyond me. This, however, is not one of those installations. 

Using darkened rooms and large screens, the Universe of Sound is essentially a virtual tour of the Philharmonia Orchestra; but it is so much more than that. All around you, Holst's The Planets is playing whilst you walk through a series small rooms, each with empty chairs and an accompanying music stand with a copy of the score sitting expectantly, waiting for someone to fill the seat and play the line. Each room represents a section of the orchestra - lower brass, harps, woodwind, upper strings etc - and each room has screens featuring the players of the Philharmonia Orchestra relevant to that section. As you sit in each section (we began with lower brass) the sound of those instruments are louder in relation to the whole orchestra, as though you are genuinely sitting amongst them. As I was following the 1st tuba solo, casting my eyes between the music in front of me and the 1st tuba player on screen, I jumped as a trombone entrance sounded strongly from my right hand side - I looked, and there on the screen were the trombones, proudly playing their line.

From a musicians point of view, it is very interesting - you can sit in areas of the orchestra that you've never done so before, listening and interacting with how their part fits into the whole. But as a non-musician, or a non-classical musician, it is still absolutely fascinating; you do not have to follow the scores of music, but you can sit, watch and listen, immersing yourself into the virtual orchestra pit. 

As with all the best audience-friendly exhibitions, there is also an interactive room. The percussion section. Oh I happy I was! I always wanted to play in the percussion section, and I dabbled with the marimbas for a year or two whilst at college, so you can imagine the joy when I turned the corner and saw a row of percussion instruments, waiting to be played. There was also a very friendly chap from the Philharmonia Orchestra, sporting a bright yellow t-shirt, ready to tell us which instruments to play next and how; we were just in time for the tambourine solo. Again, virtual screens talked you through your entrances, but the friendly yellow man would explain things first - one long shake, then tap; long shake, then tap; quick shake, tap; quick shake, tap; quick shake tap; quick shake tap. Then came the bass drum - we could do this together. Libby and I armed ourselves with large, soft beaters then with a queue from the yellow man we hit the bass drum from either side, then counted to two, then hit again. The aim was to gradually get louder as the orchestra grew in sound; as we are both somewhat excitable people we started off a little heavy, but managed to pull back before the big crescendo then drum roll at the end. Amazing.

I shan't run through all sections of the installation, as it will ruin the element of surprise. I do, however, strongly recommend going, whether you are a classical musician or not. There is something hauntingly beautiful about it - the empty chairs, the unturned pages of music. The whole place feels like you are privy to something that only a few people in the world experience - as though you shouldn't be there, as though you are hiding amongst the orchestra; an empty orchestra.

http://www.universeofsound.co.uk/

Chalk hearts and tin can cameras

On Monday night we visited our beautiful friends Malcolm and Nommy. They are a truly lovely couple, and are the brains and beauty behind Mustard Yellow Photography. We arrived to this lovely welcome:

After sharing an exceptionally tasty meal of home-made rosemary buns, sausage cassoulet (yummy Jamie Oliver recipe) and home-made ice-lollies made with a bazillion tasty flavours, Nommy shared with us their most recent DEVELOP project.

DEVELOP is a monthly photography challenge that the two of them set a group of friends and facebook followers - this month's is tin can cameras or, as it is actually called, Solargraphy. Solargraphy is a process whereby you expose photosensitive paper to sunlight through the tiniest hole for a full 6 months - the result is quite spectacular (you should google it!).

They explained the process and equipment needed, complete with a handily pre-prepared can. We then cleared out enough space in their cupboard for me, Nommy and a small garden table, and the boys set about filling all gaps of lights with a variety of appropriately-shaped books (the cans must be prepared in the dark so as not to expose the photosensitive paper too early).

Once all light had been blocked out and Nommy and I had set up our little working area, we turned on the red bike camera and set to work. As mentioned, Nommy had already prepared the can, but if you are doing this yourself you will need to do this before shutting yourself in a dark cupboard; simply take an empty drinks can, remove the top with a can opener and pierce a small hole about half way up the can with a needle.

To resume - when safely in the dark, we removed a sheet of photosensitive paper from it's packet - Nommy handed me a little pair of scissors and a piece of lined paper already cut to size (seriously, Blue Peter eat your heart out). Using the paper guide I cut the photosensitive paper with the dinky scissors. I then had to roll it into a cylinder small enough to fit inside the can - we also decided to add a tiny bit of double sided tape on the back to help the paper stay in place over the next 6 months. I shimmied the paper into place, making sure not to cover the little hole (as this is where the light will need to come through). Then, using black gaffa tape and a stubborness my Nana would have been proud of, I set about fixing the lid back onto the can, covering up all gaps, or potential gaps, or areas that one day might be a gap...

Lastly, and crucially, we covered the hole on the front with a little bit of tape before opening the cupboard.

Et voila, a tin can camera!

As we are fast approaching Midsummer, and therefore the longest day, we've decided that this will be the ideal time to fix the camera into position. Joe and I  have a sheltered garden/courtyard area so we have decided to fix our camera to the trellis on our porch in a hope to produce a photo with the old brick factories underneath and the line of the sun, traced over the course of the next 6 months, above.

I'll let you know how it goes.