I was just listening to Radio 1, yes I’m getting old, and heard an interview with the photographer Jill Peters who took this shots. They are of women in the Balkins who because of necessity became men. You can read more about here on Feature Shoot, worth a look!
Okay so I’m not really on the telly, but I’m enjoying a bit of a stint working on projects for TV3 so I’ve been a little lacks on the postings!
I’ll get back on track soon and give design updates on things that cross my path, like the recent guinness ad and irvines pictures and kitchen implements made from kitchen implements. I should also keep you posted on other currents jobs, like the hand made ice cream extroadinaires, the heavenly honey producers, the artisan foods experts and the yanky doddle dolls…
All in good time, I say! For now a backstage peek at a backstage!
“Ssh Helena, don’t look them in the eye,” Monica whispered as we rolled slowly through Athy.
The mob stood either side, solemn, angry even.
“Go back where ya came from Scum!” a balding man roared from his rolled down window.
What had we done? One hundred strong, two wheeled, Kilkenny cats set off from various parts of our marble county that sunny Saturday morning, with thoughts of Croker and Liam and all things good. We wore black and amber with pride and were greeted with rapturous applause until we crossed the county line. Once in foreign lands, we were a swarm of bees at a picnic.
“I don’t think anyone wants us to win Aine,” I said as we careened through Kilcullen.
“Up Galway!” a wheel chaired woman roared waiting at the traffic lights for the peloton to pass.
“She’s from feckin’ Kildare! Like that’s not even near Galway!?”
“It’s in Leinster,” Sinead smiled.
I shook my helmeted head, Geography was never my strong point.
Naas was no better, though we got the odd smile from a Cat in hiding. The motorway saved our spirits, honking horns of fellow County folk on the way to the big smoke spurred us on and even the lack of a Garda escort, all called out on account of the IRA, couldn’t dampen our spirits.
As we free wheeled down the tree lined streets by Pheonix Park we were alive, like we knew the boys would be on Sunday. The blood pulsed in our worn out veins, we pucked the points, gloried the goals, were there shoulder to shoulder with Shefflin and had Tommy’s back. We were the Cats who’d get the cream.
Sundays sore legs and heads told a different story as we took Kavanagh’s 9.30 to Kilkenny. Galway gave it a shot but when you’re the Man United of hurling (and modesty knows no bounds) it’s hard to feel down, the tails not between the legs yet!
I often play with relocation, sure isn’t variety the spice of life they say. The hassle’s a big thing. Pack everything up, put your life in a box only to take it out in a new place with new people and start again. If only, I’ve often thought, I could just move my house, literally. Tie on a few balloons, they’d add colour maybe even become a garden feature. When the whim took me, I’d let them loose, go where the wind blows. My flatmates of course would come too. I’d fly overnight, leave no room for discussion, limited choices you see lessens the arguments. They’d wake up one morning and step out onto a new street and we’d all be happy til the whim took again.
That’s exactly what Laurent Cherhere has done. He’s floated lots of Parisians house then taken great effort to photograph them. Many have gone missing in the prevailing winds but sure isn’t that part of the adventure. You can view more of Laurent’s work here www.laurentchehere.com
Now all that’s left to do is buy a house, shouldn’t be a problem.
There once was a fellow named Tim,
who was really, put politely, quite dim.
He had a problem with the size of his feet,
wanted them dainty and tidy and neat.
One day, a renowned doctor friend,
told Tim he was headed round the bend.
Wrote a prescription for an incredible shrink,
who was paid to just sit there and think.
He said “um and ah and well…
I see the problem, the solutions quite swell!”
Sitting up from his leathered arm chair,
he fixed poor Tim with a stare.
“Go home and fill up your belly,
with chocolate and doughnuts and jelly.
And bread and potatoes and meat,
’til your belly starts to swallow your feet.”
Tim followed docs orders to a tee,
soon the evidence he could literally see.
His feet being eaten away,
were half their size by the middle of May.
Now he walks tall, full of pride,
not behind leather nor canvas will he hide.
His rapidly vanishing feet,
now dainty and tidy and neat.
One last problem he took to the shrink,
paid him again to just sit there and think.
“I have it,” doc said his eyes shut,
“don’t get that fine hair of yours cut.”
“It’ll grow right into your eyes,
chopping that belly to half it’s fine size!”
We set off from different locations, Monica headed down from Kilkenny while I cut across from Cork. We talked about it the night before and decided against going naked all day, it could cause havoc on the motorways, not to mention trying to get a coffee afterwards.
We met in Youghal at a wrong turn, I took the wrong turn, Monica of course was on track, so I followed her silver car to the Quality Hotel. A little late for registration we made straight for reception. All eyes were downcast as we passed, everyone seemed a little embarrassed.
“But we still have our clothes on?” I questioned my younger sister, who for years has patiently played my elder.
“It’s okay Helena, they’re probably doing the dip too,”
“God if it’s like this now, what’s it going to be like on the beach,”
“Just don’t look down,” my sister warned as if we were about to climb Everest.
Registration went smoothly and we were sent to our nudie location. There the spirits were livelier, a buzz had descended on the place and some confident dippers were already in the nip. We averted our eyes and made chit chit with lots of other nervy swimmers. The main discussion point was how close the men’s dipping location appeared to be to ours, one of our new friends extremely concerned about this, questioned obsessively until we got an answer.
“See those pink balloons way down there,” we turned our heads, without my glasses I hadn’t a notion, “and those blue ones way down there,” our heads turned the opposite direction, “the pinks are where the women go in and the blue are for the men, you’ll be specks!”
There was a mass release of pent up air, the fellas were ages away. Even if their bits were massive, we’d never see them!
Next we headed for the tent, here we got our first taste. No one was shy and naked women sauntered this way and that, I had to get changed beside a women who insisted on poking her hairy bare bottom into my face. Everyone made an effort, body paint, wigs, feather boas, ivy scarves, we felt a little under dressed and vowed should we do it again we’d make more of an effort.
On the beach the tension rose, old and young giggled like school children and I shifted hastily from foot to foot, more nervous than the start of any race. Mon took out her camera and tried to sneak a few pictures. Close to eight the countdown began, everyone trotted on the spot, “ten, nine, eight, seven…” at three we shed our dressing gowns and got caught in the moment. All thirty to forty of us screamed and ran head long into the freezing waters. Everything on everyone wobbled and it felt good, real. The laughter was infectious.
We were in it together, friends supporting their friends, sisters supporting their mother, families supporting their father, wrapped in the energy and it was amazing. One women who’s bottom read “I kicked Cancers ass!” hugged her friend “we’ve done a lot of crazy things but this is definitely the craziest,” she screamed. A round of ole, ole, ole, ole broke out and we became a pack of naked soccor supporters.
As we walked back onto the beach, all self consciousness washed away by the sea, it didn’t matter anymore that we were naked, it seemed silly to put back on our clothes, this thought lasted until I reached my gown.
The moment though amazing had felt too short and as women shed their clothes once more and rushed for the waters, I looked at Monica.
“Do it again?” she nodded and we headed back in with the others. This time we stayed for a while to keep the feeling.
After the dip, men and women met for tea and food on the beach, there was a quiet calm, and we watched the waters play with the shoreline on this sunny Sunday morning. Then we wrote a message for the rag tree, our reason for this our mother, bid our new friends goodbye til next year and headed for Youghal.
Over coffee we couldn’t quite grasp what we’d done, what we felt or what it meant, but we were happy, it was sunny and life was good. Today as I write this is the last day of my mothers treatment, seems fitting!
Thanks a million to everyone for the support, we hope you’ll all come back with us next year, at the risk of sounding like a hippy, it was liberating!! Fundraising stays open for another month so if you feel like sending a few bob our way just click here
Anyone who has been around me the last few days will be aware of my Instagram obsession…I have never been one for taking pictures and only hold memories from most of the places I’ve been but last week in a stroke of pure genius I downloaded the Instagram app and I am hooked. Genuinely…
I’m sure I will bore anyone who follows this blog or the Held design twitter account with lots of instant images over the weeks, months and years to come…it’s a beautiful partnership…but it’s okay you can hide my account and I’ll never know!
Above are some of my recent memories!
(Just noticed the pictures make an “F” not on purpose but if anyone wants to read anything profound or interesting into that, please do, maybe it’s subconscious or a computer glitch, subconscious sounds better though!)
So I designed my own runners on the Nike Custom Made site…it was great spent hours experimenting and they arrived this morning. Was sick of wearing reflective gear now I’ll definitely be seen in the dark! I’ve had Nike Frees for the past year and found them brilliant, had loads of aches and pains before I got them, then had none, and now for the last four weeks running on my old runners aches and pains are back again. Better start running a lot better, there’ll be no hiding in these. The runners talk too, just look at their tongues!
So there was this competition, catch our attention it said…so I got thinking, actually I hardly ever stop thinking which can hinder the sleep, but I got thinking a little deeper. I said to myself…Helena, what’s annoying you, have you an opinion, something to say!?? Ah ha I thought…political correctness is gone too far, I’m gonna make a stand, have a voice, get a soap box, smack a child (only messin, I don’t have a child!)
So I designed this little advert, it didn’t come anywhere, I wonder why? It’s not intended to offend anyone, it’s intended to offend everyone (hence offending no one, fingers crossed!!)
So I was wandering around Blackrock in Cork on the weekend and I have to say if I’d known I was about to bump into Royalty I would have worn something a little more appropriate. At first I thought I was going mad, I heard trumpets you see. The tiny tingle of little trumpets. A glint of gold caught my eye, so I looked up. On the wall above my head was a man on a horse.
“Welcome” he said.
I froze.
“We’ve been expecting you. Everything is in place, we hope you’ll find it all to your satisfaction.”
Suddenly loud scrapping, like nails on a blackboard, attacked my ears. A wooden chair moved across the footpath towards me. It appeared to have a mind of it’s own until I looked down. About one hundred mini men tugged ropes attached to the wooden legs. The chair was placed in position by the wall a little ahead.
“Please mount it,” the man on the horse shouted.
“I’m too big, I’d break his back,” I stammered.
“I mean the chair good Sir, not my horse!”
“Oh,” I blushed.
I walked ahead and climbed on board. The man galloped his horse along the wall until we met eye to eye.
“Welcome to the Castle good Sir,” he said gesturing to the right.
I followed his arm and gasped. The smallest castle I’d ever seen was perched on top of the wall.
“We’ve put in a new railing, it runs the length of the Castle grounds,” said the man as he dismounted and walked to a tiny stainless steal railing. “We’ve also put fire safety windows upstairs in the Castle and have run numerous tests. Here,” he said waving a miniscule piece of paper at me.
I took it up and strained to read the text.
“It should all be there,” he said.
“Um looks good,” I lied handing it back.
“So,” he said, “Do you need longer to inspect?”
“Am…well it all looks great to me,” I smiled still baffled.
“Do we pass?”
“Em…Yes, in my book anyway!” I smiled.
“Oh what a relief,” sighed the little man, “The Queen will be delighted. Planning permissions been the bane of our life. Please pass on our sincere thanks to the council. Would you like a cup of tea before you leave. I’m sure you’ve lots of places to inspect?”
“Em…no I’m fine thanks,” I replied confused.
The man got back on his horse and we looked at each other for a moment.
“So I better go tell her highness,” he said breaking the silence.
“Oh right yes…I’ll be off then,” I added.
“Great! Well it was lovely to meet you,” he shouted as I dismounted my chair.
I watched him gallop away, then the small army trudged off with the chair and I was left alone by the wall. I snuck out my camera and took a picture of the palace not wanting to forget this bazaar occasion.
It’s a true story, believe it or not!
