7th-15th September 2024
My life has always followed a path running closely beside the natural world, tracking along the wilder reaches of our landscapes, both here in the South West of England, and further afield, in the remote stretches of Eastern Europe. I find myself most at home within the wide expanses of unfolding Moorland. The remains, the beginnings, and the emptiness in-between. The borders, the edges, the unknowing of what is beyond the tree-line. The broken fences, the steep climb. These wild places and their precious inhabitants, most notably horses, inspire my work as an artist, photographer, and writer.
My working background has often followed this intuition. I have worked alongside farmers and vets as a nurse, incredible horse men and women in both natural and classical horsemanship. Through riding, training, and rehabilitation, my relationship with the equine world widened, and my insight into their behaviour deepened. Several years ago I found myself living within the heart of Bodmin Moor. Forging connections with the wild inhabitants of this seemingly unforgiving landscape was humbling and illuminating. Many of those often remote moorland herds became familiars, my camera enabling me to capture a window into their worlds momentarily.
Sharp Tor, Bodmin Moor: A steep final climb up onto this precipice always has my breath snatched by the biting wind. A single crooked hawthorn bows at the peak offering up the most expansive view of Dartmoor, that vast big sister Moor, rolling and stretching far beyond the horizon. Gazing from this rugged Cornish watchtower, crossing Counties, I would often imagine truly meeting this Moor.
In time I found myself settling on her Southern slopes. Delving into the ancient history and folklore I began to explore this broad landscape. There is undeniable magic to be discovered. A gentleness though. You rarely need to hold your breath, or peer over your shoulder. There is comfort to be found amidst these tors and trees. The horses, often bold and brassy, are more familiar and at ease with the presence of passing people. The coy and cautious wilder spirits may still be found here, a little further from the track. Seasonally mottled and ragged robed. Tousled and tangled. Wearing crowns of gorse and untrusting expressions. Nostrils flared and ears fixed. There is possibly no greater privilege than the heavy breath drawn out by the calming of a cautious horse. The drooping lower lip, the ears drifting away from you into other thoughts, and the slow sinking nod into ease and impassiveness. My photographic work often begins here, as my companions allow me to be swallowed up by the land. Disappearing opens doorways.
Although my life has migrated home to Cornwall, Dartmoor remains firmly on the horizon. No longer an unfamiliar imagining or distant relative, she is instead a sanctuary. A home from home; beyond the border, the edges, and the tree-line.
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