I’ve written before in this blog about the urge of collage artists to collect  all manner of weird and wonderful things and this post will revisit that theme without apology: it’s such a fundamental part of my identity as a collage artist, and to a large extent serves as an end in itself.

My urge to collect art materials has taken a particular turn lately as I’m slowly savouring a wonderful book Fragmentation and Repair by Shelley Rhodes. Shelley is a mixed media artist with a particular interest in textile art. Although textiles feature largely in the book, the techniques and compositions she describes and showcases are applicable to collage and mixed media artists generally, even those with little interest in working with fabrics. Shelley has also inspired me to experiment with fabric and sewing in my own work. In fact her work has inspired me to such an extent that I have purchased a sewing machine (the first I’ve ever owned!) and I currently have several random scraps of fabric wrapped around rusty metal objects dotted around my back garden, to be worked on and weathered by the elements.

I have bought some scraps of old fabrics from ebay, but I’ve been lucky enough to be gifted a wonderful collection of lace fabrics and other sewing ephemera from a relative who has been clearing up her craft room, so I have a wonderful head start once I have found a space in our small house to set up my sewing machine!

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Now that both of my children have left home, my art and craft supplies are gradually taking over what used to be their bedrooms (and still are, of course, whenever they come back home to visit). In fact there are very few rooms in the house that are untouched by my various collections of what I’m sure would be, to most people, rubbish. And honestly most of it is rubbish, and that’s kind of the point of it.

She gathers objects that are weathered, worn, broken and overlooked, observing and responding to small inconsequential things and discarded detritus that may inspire or become part of the finished artwork. (Shelley Rhodes.)

I collect old papers, of course; old books, tatty magazines, book spines. From charity shops I also buy cradled canvases (generic ‘hotel art’, I’m sure you know the kind of thing) and paint, paste and paper over them. Wooden boxes and other wooden structures to use for assemblages. Sometimes I strike particularly lucky and find old bottles in my lunchtime charity shop raids.

My more unusual collections, perhaps, include a small stash of pieces of sea glass. Twigs/sticks, many of them found on Bossington Beach in Somerset. We visit Somerset every summer, staying in Minehead at the wonderful guest house run by Andy and Helen Mountford (the breakfasts are to die for!). Bossington Beach isn’t what you’d call a ‘fun’ beach – no golden sands – but it’s one of the most interesting places I’ve ever been.

I’ve always been drawn to rusty metal. You can keep your shiny things, it’s rust that does it for me, every time! One of my favourite holiday activities is to mooch around harbours looking for discarded bits of scrap metal. The colours, the textures, the sheer physicality of rusted metal is what appeals to me.

Finally, and arguably most weirdly, I collect animal bones. I find them on beaches or on hill walks and bleach them, if necessary, with concentrated hydrogen peroxide. It goes without saying, I would hope, that all the bones I collect are collected humanely, generally washed up on beaches as the tide goes out.

One thing shared by all my various mad collections is what Shelley Rhodes refers to as ‘the effects of time, the transience of nature, the things that go un-noticed and the ever-changing fragility of the things around her.’ The older I get, the more aware I am of the delicate balance between life and death. This has been brought home to me in particular by health issues over the past year or so that have brought me up close and personal with my own mortality. (I’m fine, by the way, just less inclined to take life, and health, for granted these days, and it has been a steep learning curve as I learn how to live well and thrive with several chronic illnesses.)

Possibly my own health issues have made me that much more appreciative of Shelley Rhodes’ concerns with the concept of fragmentation and repair. In her work, ‘Cloth, drawings and objects are often fragmented before being reconstructed in some way’. This is something that particularly speaks to me these days. At my lowest ebb, when my health issues seemed overwhelming, I couldn’t see a path beyond my troubles; I felt that the best part of my life was over, that from here on in it was just struggle. I feel that I have managed to put myself back together, so that I’m more or less whole, but reconstructed rather than perfectly whole. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.