in the woods

carved squirel cover

‘in the woods’ was a commision proposal for a nature trail to be sited near Alder Hay hospital by Alison Little.

in the woods….
Trail, Woodland Walk, Springfield Park, Knotty Ash

Specifications

The trail looks to present a selection of 15 signs based on an element of nature, wildlife, insects and local history relevant to Springfield Park.

Each signpost to measure around 150meters high in Oak. The top section of posts to be hand carved with either a creature, plant or feature related to the specific sign presented. The services of a woodcarver to be engaged, the finish to be left rough, not finely polished. On the first appearance, walkers may get the impression they have been carved randomly not commissioned craft-works. This is to be complemented by a matt lacquer giving the forms a natural woodland finish.

The signboards are to be A2 and landscape in design. Printed directly to Dibond with an enamel coating to ensure they remain graffiti free. The ‘in the woods…’ logo to be drilled directly into the Dibond then to incorporate the use of small prisms to reflect sunlight either within the holes or on adjacent nature growth structures. The logo has an interactive potential for visually impaired visitors, place braille panels to be added to the lower section of the signs.

Each sign to focus on a different element of the ‘in the woods…’ trail, the design shown has focused on wild garlic. There is great potential to work with local schools and community groups in workshops for slogan generation, image production and using recipes with wood foraged from Spring field park. The results of these workshops to be incorporated within the graphic design of the signage.

carved squirel copySign Board copy

More about Alder Hey in the Park

Advertisements

Eco Chamber Marks it’s Territory

Ver 0.28N

 

Last week saw the arrival of the various components which will make up the Eco Chamber arrive at Rimrose Valley Country Park. Nestled into the appointed hill they have carved out a route over the brow. Each component is made from re-claimed tyre rims with additional textures of biodegradable plastic bags added using a heat seal process. Next week after a much needed few days of rainfall the Eco Chamber will be built into the landscape.

The Eco Chamber is part of the Rimrose Valley Art Trail as part of the Biennial Independents. Seven artists will present works throughout the Park. Alice Lenkiewicz will transcribe poetry directly onto the pathway in the Goodness Trail. Throughout the Biennial, Sarah Nicholson will present Ir/revocable adding to the entrances of the prominent greenspace. Then in September, after an exhausting walking challenge on the continent, Sarah Jane Richards will bring us Willow Nests.

Environmental Art at its finest, activism to Save Our Park!

RV-art-trail-map

Eco Chamber

Full image

Eco Chamber is the latest sculptural commission from North West Based artist Alison Little. As part of the Liverpool Independents 2018 Biennial it will form part of the Rimrose Valley Country Park environment art trail.

 

Concept: Eco Chamber is to be a form created solely from re-claimed materials, a large pod-like structure, fully spherical. The skeleton of the structures is formed from waste car tires rims structure into spherical forms giving the impression of large atom-like shape. The tire rims are wrapped in bio-degradable green garden waste bags adapting traditional crochet techniques to contemporary practise. Plastic bag usage is essential to the ‘Green’ methodology with them being a major contributor to waste culture in the UK and globally. Some element of green incorporated within the mainly white forms, adding to the ‘Green’ credential but not taking complete control of the colour spectrum. The intention is form to forms to stand out, but not to obscure the urban landscape, Sculptural form which will work will the existing environment. Although made entirely from man made materials and 20th and 21st century manufacturing processes the materials and the working process produce a very organic form. Similar in appearance to traditional thatch works, the medium of plastic bag having straw-like qualities and the use of circular forms commonplace . Using foliage adds to the environmental elements of the chamber, use of beans and sweetcorn plants which are in season at the proposed period adding purpose to the aesthetic. The chamber will be around 2 meters high, a strong visual forms which stamp an environmental message on the festival.

Biennial Independents

Rimrose Valley Country Park

 

We are Clubmore

main image copy

‘We are Clubmore’ is a mural proposal put forward by Alison Little for a regeneration scheme running in the Clubmoor region of Liverpool.

‘We are Clubmore’ combines typography and abstract painting skill to produce this striking mural. We see a mix of techniques which will draw attention to the regeneration which is happening in Clubmoor. The slogan generated ‘We are Clubmore’ represents to people who reside and work in Clubmore and represent how the community which they create. The use of blue tones and the red backing refer subtly to the Liverpool and Everton Football Clubs which are both n walking distance from where the mural is to be sited. The re-arrangement of the ‘MORE’ is to indicate a cross road, a turning point for the Club more towards a more positive environment.

My Clubmoor

 

 

I am the Superlambanana

Ver 0.28N

I am the Superlambanana

I sit on the mantle-piece, brought in a drunken surge from the local bottle shop. Originally cast in China, a miniature of Liverpool finest public artworks. I stand on my plinth and I look around this room, I see the early morning starts, breakfasts followed by the waking of the dog and then the cleaning of the front room. Observing my raised peak tail I see it lacks the rub and polish it received at the factory in China, again when unpacked at the wholesalers, then an extra special rub over when placed by the spirits at the Off Licence. At the factory I was one in a million, on the cargo ship one in a thousand then finally a simple sidekick to the bells whiskey which too many drunks chose to ignore when they stagger into the shop. Here I am an individual, I am the Superlambanana not one of many. I should be kept shinier and more glam to twinkle in the sunlight, but I stand proud as an almighty One-off. Watching everything going on I am central to the house, the head of the main room. I am the focal point, I am the master, I am the controller. Watching them argue, listening to them make-up, seeing their tears and hearing their laughter. I understand their desires and their disdain and I watch when they collide. The pet dog gets a free rein of downstairs, but he is nothing on me, I am glossy and smooth, shapely, standing tall and proud. He is rough coated, shreds his fur and bounces in excitement. He scratches and brings home flea’s, I gleam clean, I am the supreme.

I am the Superlambana.

‘I am the Superlambanana’ is a work of Flash Fiction written by Alison Little in February of 2018, she has lived in Liverpool for fifteen years and witnessed the Superlambanana become a symbol of the city.

a Lesson in Pseudosciene

side vision bee copy

A Lesson in Pseudoscience was the second design submitted by Alison Little for Bea in the City, the mass public art trail for Manchester, summer 2018.

A lesson in Pseudoscience looks to present an image of a physics-based lecture where the science behind the flight of the bumblebee is explored. We look at concepts presented by famous entomologist August Magnan who determined that through the laws of fight the Bumble Bee simply couldn’t fly. We introduce concepts of formula to work on the potential wingspan, angles and wing texture. Examples of helicopter propellers and small tornadoes are illustrated in reference to the physics-defying flight part of this great insect. The base contains the final statement from the Bee itself ‘I can fly’ showing he is clearly about to perform the action of flight.

A Way Through Everton Brow

Skull Everton Brow colour

A way through Everton Brow is a fictional works from Alison Little, none of the events of characters are based on real life.

Approaching the entrance to Everton Park I encounter a group congregated around the steps area. In having walked up from the town, then I decided to take a short cut through Everton Park, a pleasant walk through the eighties formed geometric botanical scape of the former slum-like dwellings. The steps ahead of me, encased by artificially positioned rock structures arching in my vision. Topped with beacons of the decade, semi-sphere finished, imitation Victorian meeting eighties manufacturing of plastic vacuum forming, lolly pop lighting. Many of the semi-spheres have been broken, the closest having fallen down from the teenage revelry of what looked like the previous evening. Up the hill to the left, there is the famed Everton tower, the moss lined former sweet shop which became an iconic symbol of the multi-million pound turnover of today’s Premier League. Towards the top of the hill, the soil of the parkland has been churned up, its annual transformation into a wild flower meadow taking place. A touch of England’s green and pleasant land of the rural communities bought into the inner city green space of North Liverpool. The distant tree’s masks the vision of the back-to-back housing which crowds the brow.

Coming up from the Netherton Road, a well-known prostitution zone, to my rear is one of the cities hostels for the homeless. The group look to be from this establishment, they are slouching on the steps and one of them is swagging cider from a toxically coloured bright blue plastic bottle, spilling much of it onto the white encrusted black T Shirt he has crawled into earlier in the day.

A motley, tooth lacking, hair overgrown crew, assembled in layers of clothing which looked to pad out their malnourished forms. As my eyes twitch slightly, the late afternoon sun distorts my vision. Two globes of the street lighting become eye sockets and the encircling steps become reflected into a mouth-like arch, smiling as the brick become teeth. I see the vision of a human skull, decaying, but deliriously enthused by its demise.

I consider walking around the long way, but on my approach one of the men slides to one side to allow my passageway through the group. There is a smell of fried chips from earlier in the day, proceeds of an afternoon spent begging.

As I walk closer I notice one girl amongst the group. An army like jacket combined with sprawling matt-like lengthy black hair trailing onto the ground, sweeping the debris from a day of spoils. A bag to her side looks to be her worldly possessions, easily lost and often replaced. A year, possibly two of grown out dark, dirty-blond ended hair from a cheap home dye treatment. She sits with her hood drowning over her face, the oversized jacket ruffled into her body stretching down over the well-frayed denim of the jeans. Legs entangled awkwardly, the knee joints almost too large for her frame, her upper limbs animated motion as she speaks. I look towards her face, the skin is pale, translucent and muddy in texture, common in the appearance of a heroin addict. As I pass through the group, her arms in moving, I hear her say:

‘If you could just lend us twenty quid’

She pleads, then in begging tones, she repeats her request again. As I walk forward and up towards the top of the brow I ponder over what her life must be like, reduced to the bleak state presented to myself.

In twitching my eyes again I am confronted with a new vision. I am in Everton Park when it first opened, the grasslands newly grown, the dusty smell from the demolition work still present. The trees are young, growing being guided, nurtured into what will become strong features of this green space. The lighting is new, the semi-sphere’ all intact and there is an air of excitement and optimism for this newly formed natural breathing space allowing an escape from the urban sprawl.

The swing park is alive with children’s games, delighted by their new found play-scape. Back and throw on the swings, mothers pushing younger children, grandmas and granddads holding coats and bags. Chase games over climbing structures, up and down, rhetoric, over and under. Spinning at full speed at the roundabout encircles while the occupants cling on as it reached optimum speeds. Concrete still fresh, neatly finished off with a waist height fence in line with the latest trends.

Outside of the fenced area, we have several dog walkers, one Staff is off its lead, squatting down. The owner blasé, no need to pick up, poop bags and scoops a thing of the future. Just left to rot as nature intended, a child standing in it simply wiping their shoe on the verge, no fuss, commonplace.

A mother is pushing a young girl in a buggy. The mother sports a purple dot dye blouse, no collar, large baggy sleeves cuffed inwards. A knee length skirt gathers volume in tiers, the purple mix of dyes finished off with a tie cord fitting. Her large curls flow in the wind as she pushes the buggy, a navy and grey MacClaren stroller, four wheels and the hood up to protect from the sun. The bottom compartment packed full of what they might need for the day, wet wipes and a well planned packed picnic lunch in addition to a few carefully selected outdoor toys.

Content in her push chair the daughter is happy for her mother to guide her, taking care not to hit any larger stones. Hair neatly combed into bunches, a glossy full fringe finished off with plastic animal clips. Her top is light green, wasted but with a short skirt built in. Micky and Mini mouse are in discussion on the front of the top. The girl pulls up her blanket, it scrunches around her and her sun hat seems to fall forward, she suddenly seems morphed by the buggy, then I hear her say:

‘Mum, can I have £2?’

I see before me the girl in the camouflage jacket thirty years ago. I see her when she was innocent and pure, unspoilt by the evils of life.

Reflecting on her upbringing, loving and good, decent and playful. I wonder again what had happened to her, where had it all gone wrong?

Walking towards the exit near the brow the strange eye twitching sensation happens again. I am now in a terraced street, the road ascending steeply ahead. To my right, the houses back onto the pavement, gated containing small yard area’s and possibly even outside toilets. To my left, there is a row of terraces front on with steps leading up the main doors. Only a few cars, one is parked up not far ahead, it is racing green in colour with a long stretched bonnet and a soft top, as it glistens in the sun I identify it as a Ford Thunderbird. I contemplate what its owner was doing parking a classic car of such high value in these dwellings and how it was in such good condition?

As I ascend further up the hill I pass two women chatting, both are wearing dark coats and head scarf’s, one has a loaf of bread under her arm, brown bagged and looking to be purchased from a traditional baker. I gaze over the new location and further up the street I see a woman sitting on her front step, she has a can of cider in one hand, to the far side of her, there is a baby in a well used Moses basket. As the baby cries out she shakes the basket and spits out ‘Shush’. Hardly more than a teenager herself she devours the can of cider. I hear a radio playing:

New release…..Sargent Pepper…….the Beetles.

Now I know where I am, it’s 1967, the Summer of Love, I am in Everton Park before all the demolition work and the housing schemes made way for the park. I look towards the baby, she was dirty from her mother’s lack of care, she tries to wipe her face clean with her hands having given up on crying due to lack of response. A purple dotted cardigan has been clambered into her, in need of a wash but still nice in appearance, it looks to have been a gift. A man staggers towards the group, leering as he sways, the Mother appeared to know him:

‘Lend me a few bob will ya?’ she slurs, ‘I need to get stuff in for the baby!’

Her honourable intentions being clearly unconvincing, her feet littered with crushed cans of cider from earlier in the day. I realise who the group are, the baby is the mother who was pushing the pram earlier and her mother would be the original girl’s grandmother.

My mind questions the trilogy, an alcoholic mother, a child who grows up to be respectable, tried to raise her own daughter well, her child growing up to be a heroin addict. A gene pool skipping a generation laid dormant waiting to strike again. Environment and upbringing cast aside, genetics have re-surfaced in the form of a truly destructive lifestyle.

A brow well travelled.