The air rifle

the air rifle in the shed, leaning against the kitchen wall, some of us were handed one at 11 though I knew few who had access to a weapon like this. 
Usually the son of a father who shot or a grandfather who like mine who had a shotgun, the law of the day allowed it.  A child of14 could have an air weapon, while somebody of 21 or overcooked supervise a boy of 14, at 17 a boy could buy one over the counter, you were shown how to check that it was empty before you were shown how to load it. The first lesson after that was carrying it broken over your arm, and there was no sacrifice because getting it wrong once was not a thing, what was a thing was getting you finger tip caught in the breech caught by a badly braized and modified spring I still bare the mangled finger top to this day.  For most their targets were cans lined up or paper targets at the end of the garden, for me, It was H3nrietta, my mothers beloved hen, shed had it for years, it skeot in a straw scattered dressing table in her bedroom in the daytime, father shot it, mother made him eat that tough old bird, to this day I still have the mangled finger but no answer whether I coldnt or wouldn't shoot the hen or of the thought of mother's reaction when she found out.

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A Quiet Return It’s been a few years since anything new appeared on this blog. No dramatic exit, no crisis, no grand story — just life unfolding in its own quiet way while I wandered off into a long stretch of creative exploration. I didn’t spend that time chasing expectations or trying to produce anything impressive. In fact, it was the opposite. I let myself make things without pressure, without anticipation, and without any need for an audience. It was a good kind of absence — the sort that gives you space to breathe and rediscover what you enjoy. Along the way, painting slipped out of my hands. Not abandoned in frustration, just… released. It had carried me through many chapters, but eventually it felt like a language I’d said enough in. So I turned to sculpture, almost by accident, and found myself on a long, meandering tour through every material within reach. Papier‑mâché came first — messy, forgiving, and strangely liberating.Foam followed, stubborn but full of possibility.Cardboard had its moment too, proving far more architectural than I expected. Each material taught me something different about form, weight, and patience. And then, gradually, I settled into polymer clay. It felt right — structured but flexible, expressive without demanding perfection. It opened a new path, and with it came another journey: exploring genre, tone, and character in ways paint never quite allowed. So yes, I’ve been away. But not idle.Just quietly occupied in the kind of creative work that doesn’t need announcing. Now the blog returns — not as a relaunch, not as a promise, but simply as a continuation. A place to share what I’ve been shaping, learning, and enjoying along the way. If you’ve found your way back here too, welcome. Let’s see where this next chapter leads.

Polymer Clay 01

grounding