Hello. This post is about lines.
If you’ve been following The Line, thank you for waiting for me to join up the dots. If you have arrived recently, thank you for your interest in my work and welcome.
I felt it was time for a re/introduction and an update on where things stand in Simon’s studio.
For those who are newer, my name is Emily. I have written since I was a little girl, read English Language and Literature at university and then did an MA in Creative Writing. But after finishing that, I decided to use my creative energy in the social justice field, very deliberately, (at least until ‘later’; and here we are now, in the midst of later…).
After volunteering with the British Red Cross’ Refugee Services, I founded and led a humanitarian charity in London called Ourmala, which offered a safe space to people seeking asylum or with refugee status to breathe and heal through trauma-informed yoga, and other services. We also supported the community around Grenfell Tower. I loved this work, which was at the intersection of yoga, healthcare and social justice.
Just before lockdown, a breast cancer diagnosis meant I had to take time out for medical treatment, healing and getting used to life with an ‘invisible disability’ on medicine that regularly lowers immunity. I then decided to work on a different project, close to my heart, with my elderly artist father, the renowned wood engraver, illustrator and writer, Simon Brett.
For over a year, with lockdown as a backdrop, we met in his studio to talk about his life, making meaning and art. I recorded and transcribed the conversations and drafted a manuscript for a book — part memoir, written as letters to my daughter, and part exploration of my father’s life through our final conversations.
My daughter’s birth was a matter of great uncertainty, and the letters became a way of exploring the ethics and the hope of bringing her into the world against the backdrop of my own history. Dad and I were close but during this time our relationship changed and I got to know him even more, in a way I never imagined possible. I have never known life without his studio at the end of the garden.
Last year, a few weeks before Christmas, my husband KL had a stroke and three weeks later, Dad died. He left his artistic estate and studio to me; ever since, around being a mum and putting my health first (which means putting joy and having as much fun as possible too, first!), I have been carefully assessing his studio, looking into where items could end up, and getting stuck in practically, with the help of some very kind members of the family and friends.
It has been testing but, with complete sincerity, I feel I have learned some profound lessons and am very grateful for my blessings.
As Simon’s wife, my mum, Juliet, plans to put her house on the market in April (as in two months away), and we have overseas family visiting in June, I now have until May to clear the studio. Yes, this is a huge task.
I started The Line as a creative outlet to document this process and my plan was to use Substack as a digital notebook, and a way to connect with others who might have known Simon, his work or resonate with anything else in my situation.
KL has made a brilliant recovery and while Little E chases Millie the spaniel around the kitchen with a harmonica, I am finishing the assessment and distribution plan in a spreadsheet at the kitchen table. Much is underway and after having some quiet time, during which the anniversary, the first one, of Dad’s death took place, this now all feels less heavy and more like a smooth pebble in a clear stream.
I will be posting here on Sundays at 8am, fortnightly or thereabouts. The long-form essays might be rarer for a while, but I am just very happy to be back and will share more personal reflections and precious photographs from the studio with my paid subscribers.
Any questions are always more than welcome.
From my part of the line to yours, thank you for being here too.
Emily
** Photographs of Simon’s studio here, before the sorting began
