First Encounter

View from the Window – From my ‘sketchbook

This was the 60’s and what seems a million years ago. I was sitting in the back seat of my father’s car. Morose, is probably not the word, there may be a better one; I was 13 or 14 with issues. My grandmother, still, at that time called “Nan Nan” enjoyed trips out into the Surrey hills when she came to stay with us. It was a time before the oil crisis and the carbon foot print. I am not sure how my father, who worked long hours, new so many country roads. He seemed to have a perfect map or gyroscope in his head, a human Sat Nav! 

Anyway, we were out and about on this fine Sunday afternoon. My eyes were fixed on the lane and overhanging trees, fascinated by the rope-like roots that embedded the chalk banks, washed by rain that had strewn knife like flints across the narrow road. My head nodded against the glass and with pangs of anxiety I thought of my return back to school in a few weeks time. I tried to concentrate on the winding view that reminded me so much of Graham Sutherland’s Pembrokeshire lane paintings.

We climbed a hill up towards the North Downs Way, the track that took the pilgrims on to Canterbury. Just as we turned a sharp bend my mother; I am sure it was my mother called out,

Stop!

Look, there’s a gypsy caravan. Sure enough, there it was and sitting next to it Buddha – like, sat an elderly gentleman with a lose check shirt and baggy trousers.

I hadn’t notice, but along side this guru, was a handmade trestle type table with what appeared to be strange pottery items. I didn’t know at the time, how this chance encounter would change the direction of my life.

So how can I describe this first meeting with this Chinese influenced studio pottery? They were unlike any crockery I had ever seen before. Cups and mugs of sombre natural colour, deep rich greens, shiny dark blacks with flecks of brown. Bowls of clear turquoise blues and creamy golds were set against blood red vibrant violet flecks on dishes and plates. They’re were tall odd shape objects that I later gathered were incense burners, robust looking teapots with bamboo handles, most fantastic. How crazy was this place, set in the very middle of a sedate orthodox county? Was it a time warp, someone replanting a chunk of ancient medieval orient into our post war consumer based society?

What also amazed me was that my father was also intrigued and began a long conversation with this slightly unkempt casual man who oozed a sort of magic energy and appeared to have a smoke of care and deep thought about him. To me, he appeared as a man living a dream, a true artist, like Monet or Rembrandt. He talked animatedly about his pots and his discovery of ancient glazes, Sang de Boeuf, the “blood of the ox”, Celadon and Tenmuko.