Illustration Collaborations with ECA Students: Part 1

In a series of posts, we are delighted to share the artworks that third year Edinburgh College of Art illustration students created in response to texts by our Citizen Writing Group.

48 hours – A soundscape by Evelyn Karlsberg

My heart sank as I boarded the coach on Jeffrey Street. It was packed. A sea of grumpy faces. Only the driver making a brief announcement and the crumpling of a crisp packet broke the silence as I made my way to the empty seats in the back row. The 17:45 LNER train –the last out of Edinburgh heading south that day—had been cancelled, and I was on a replacement coach service to Newcastle. From there a train was supposed to take me south to York, where I would be visiting my daughter and granddaughter.

As we inched our way out of Edinburgh in the heavy traffic, I could hear muffled chatting and the raised voices of children, punctuated by the occasional car horn and a siren. Whether we liked it or not, the driver had decided Kingdom Radio would keep us company. Voices soon gave way to a resigned quiet once we reached the A1. Many people had entered their own world through their headphones. Instead, I immersed myself in my book, and did my best to ignore the pelting of rain on the roof and the loud breathing of a man seated nearby who had fallen asleep well before we even left Edinburgh. Apparently, he had just been on a big stag do…

Xiang Meng

It took three hours to reach Newcastle train station. I got off the coach to be greeted by bright lights and heavy rain; a blur of people rushing about; shouting; horns honking in the confusion of traffic. Inside the station, urgent announcements blared on the tannoy. A train had just disgorged its passengers. The march of footsteps up a ramp, then crossing the bridge, the clacking and hum of suitcase wheels, excited voices, echoed through this cavernous space. And then they were gone. An eerie stillness pervaded the station, and it suddenly felt deserted. I pulled my suitcase along, the grinding wheels reverberating on the concrete. The train to York? The empty one sitting over there on platform four, I was told. I took a seat in the quiet coach and waited --an hour as it turned out-- for it to depart. Quiet? The silence was deafening. Once the train started to move, all I can recall from that part of the journey is being almost alone in that coach, the pitch darkness outside –except for the stations along the way-- and an automated voice announcing train stops. And the incessant rain. I was never so happy to finally arrive at my daughter’s house…

The following day’s sunshine and blue skies were the perfect antidote to this journey. And the timing was perfect too, because my granddaughter and I were booked on a cruise on the River Ouse!

My granddaughter is three and talks non-stop these days. While I pushed her in the buggy from home to the landing where we would board the boat, she prattled on about the noisy cars and lorries on the road; the quacking ducks flying overhead; and the bumps and holes in the pavement. She talked about her favourite new toys. And I listened, taking pleasure in seeing and hearing the world through her eyes and ears.

Once the cruise got under way, other sounds came alive. Many were new for her, as she had not been on a boat before. She liked the whoosh of the water; less so the wind in her hair. She found the tooting of the boat’s horn funny but the sound of the engine scary when the boat went into reverse gear. Much better the cawing of crows in the trees on the riverbank and the peculiar echo of the boat and our voices as we passed under Skeldergate and other bridges.

Yaxuan Wang

A café for lunch was our next stop. A treat for both of us, though more for me, if you are at all familiar with the elegant Betty’s Tearooms. It is a Yorkshire institution, where lovely food is served amid the soft rumble of conversation and the gentle clacking and clinking of cutlery, glass and crockery. Surprisingly, my granddaughter thoroughly enjoyed her meal and surroundings. Afterwards, a walk through the Shambles, where she eventually fell asleep from all that excitement and fresh air. This is when I strolled on and took in the sounds of the city on my own: tourist busses with commentary blaring; the busy clatter of shoppers and tourists on foot; the tinkle of bicycle bells; pop music wafting out of shops; and the robust tones of a busker singing old sea shanties. No bagpipes, but sounds otherwise quite reminiscent of Edinburgh, especially during the summer festivals…

The walk home offered me time for quiet contemplation and to enjoy the pleasure my granddaughter took in this special day out.

The following afternoon saw me get on the train back to Edinburgh. As the train slowed down on its approach into Waverley Station, wheels screeching, I was already at the door, ready to disembark. Some beeping, a swoosh as I released the door, and on stepping out onto the platform I joined the surge of other passengers heading towards the gate. I was home!

***

Lucy Szundiova

Night and Day by Dave Pickering

Following last week’s Citizen session I had plans to visit some of my favourite places: Lauriston Castle, Newhaven harbour, Cramond foreshore, the Botanic Gardens … unfortunately life got in the way, as it often does …

My wife’s sister is very ill. She has cancer and is her condition has now advanced to the stage where she is beyond treatment other than pain relief.

After a spell in hospital, she was allowed home. I could add two words to that last sentence to drive home what it really means, but just now it is still too raw, too real.

We visited her yesterday, and talked about many things: holidays we had spent together, children, grand-children, politics … but not about health, or pain, or life and death. Too raw, too real …

It was early evening and already dark when we got home, and I must have fallen asleep in my chair almost immediately.

I woke at 2am, my wife sound asleep on the sofa. Straight away, my head filled with all the thoughts and worries that had been there before I had fallen into that exhausted sleep. My head was pounding: filled to overflowing, spilling over. I knew that there was no point in going to bed to try to have a normal night’s sleep – that would be impossible.

Yutong Lu

Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight, but I put on my coat and shoes, left a note in case Caroline woke up when I was gone and headed out. I would go for a walk to clear my head.

On closing the front door I quickly realised I had perhaps made a mistake. It was a foul night, but then the darkness matched my mood.

During the first lockdown my exercise regime included a daily walk along the cycle path that runs behind my house. I would walk down to the red bridge at Crewe Toll and home again. Maybe a twenty minute stroll, nothing too demanding. And when I say my exercise regime included a daily walk, that walk WAS my exercise regime.  Every day. Or maybe every other day, then.

Anyway, despite it being pitch dark, despite the howling wind, despite the lashing rain – or maybe because of them all – I headed for the familiar cycle path.

Places take on a different character at night and the cycle path was transformed from a mundane walkway that tinkled with cyclists’ bells by day into a whole new Hellish world by night. Yes, there were streetlights but they were fighting an impossible battle against deep, deep darkness and a relentless, driving rain. And that wind, howling in my ears and bending those massive trees. Magnificent, exciting weather … and when I think back on it now, all thoughts of illness, pain and loss had gone – and so had my headache.

Frantiska Jiraskova

This was a special darkness that reset the senses. I couldn’t see my feet and I was walking on memory, plodding on as the roar and the whistle of the wind tore through the trees in crystal-clear surround-sound.

It was hard to make anything out with any certainty as my glasses were steamed up and a quickly-sodden handkerchief could do nothing to clear them. I was even more certain now that I really shouldn’t have left the house and I turned, completely drenched now, to head back.

I was hugely surprised – and just a little frightened – when I saw a man walking towards me, illuminated as a watery silhouette by the street lights. He was walking a dog. I did feel vulnerable, but then I was surprised whenconcerns about social etiquette kicked in.

It must have been nearly three in the morning. I’ve got to acknowledge this man’s presence. What could I say to him? Just ‘Good morning’? It didn’t seem enough, somehow.

As he drew level, I managed: “’Morning” but his stride didn’t falter and he never took his eyes off the path. It was as if I wasn’t there. The dog, too, a big dark beast, showed no interest and kept it’s head down as it scurried on.

I stood and watched for a while until they disappeared into the gloom. Ships that pass in the night. A very stormy night. God help those poor souls out at sea, I thought as I turned for home …

I went back to the cycle path the next day. There were some reminders of the night before night – the wind gusted sometimes, but not with the screaming power I had experienced just a few short hours ago. Some broken branches. And there were some impressive puddles. But the sun was shining and the sunlight was dancing off the puddles as they rippled in the breeze.

A bright new day.

***

Flora Luckman

Garden Soundscape by Bernard Harkins

Sometimes I sit in the garden,

close my eyes and listen.

The traffic zooming by with its own rhythm.

The wind picking up,

the coolness against my skin,

and in my ears the sounds that carry from the fields.

Cheri Stotesbury

Dog walkers calling and their hounds

the noise of children yelling

the leaves and branches rustling.

And high above the roar of engines as a plane comes into land.

Then all seems still until I hear what underpins it all,

birds singing softly and then obscured

as the cycle begins again.

Shuxuan Zhang

***

Miranda Li

The Surprise in the Soup by Margaret McKay

An upset on Christmas Day is something to avoid.

Every year my husband persists in making Cock a Leekie soup to start off the festive meal.

Family members know what’s coming but visitors are unprepared. “Mmm” they say, “chicken and leek soup. We like that”. But cock a leekie deceives them.

Following the French tradition, a prune – or pruneau to give it the recipe title – sits at the bottom of each bowl, looking up, daring you to sup.

Aner Wang

Lucy Stewart

***

Mariam Tovmasyan

Requiem for a Seagull by Jeff Kemp

Futile

but beautifully

synchronized,

two wings keeping

perfect time.

Last flight.

Landing to scavenge

near a traffic island,

then a too-fast car or

too-late escape.

It matters nothing now.

Wings conducting

the last pulse.

Tomorrow will show

only a rag

of mashed bones

and blackened feathers

on a road of

hurried commuters.

Seth Statham

Nothing I saw

that day

moved me more

until, later,

a sunset so majestic people

stopped to take pictures.

A smudge under wheels

and a volcanic sky

summed up my day

concisely as an age

is held in a name:

for Elizabethan, read Shakespeare

who presented overhead wonders

as signifying global events.

Kate Granholm

Palace intrigues struck

planetary sparks

for him but royalty

means less to me

than fledglings waiting

for sustenance that

never comes.

Sunset fades.

I drive away the thought of

wings forever beating the air.

Going no-where.

Silence and beauty signifying nothing

but hunger and decay.

***

Ally McKay

Laikipia County, Kenya: On This Day by Jane Murray

She lies back

Having checked out.

Mother and daughter

I will never know.

Out of my window

I catch them

Normally at this hour

Mother and son

I smile at the resemblance

Not physically

But the story is the same.

A duty of care

Lucy Keegan

They settle back into the heat and the calm

I watch the ribs rise and sink

I can almost smell their coat

And I want to draw them

It is instant and my breath is with theirs

Pen on paper

Weighted ribs, rest on the ground, I can feel that weight in the relaxed state,

Back legs tucked under and the head struggling to stay  ‘a head’,

Paws with soft pads

Lucy Szundiova

My pen begins to draw

Aware the webcam or they may move,

So I look closely,

At them

Not the paper

Erin Cuthbert

***

Anna Bonsignorio

Notes on the Harmonica in Wartime by Dave Forbes

flaking corner bench

November birdsong

they dwindle away

a generation escaping

the sound of marching music

leaving an old man

standing quiet

except for the occasional

sound of wheezing

-------

the place unimportant

since in every town

there is a bench

to remember Big Tam Baird

1893 – 1916

and for every Big Tam

a Wee Sammy

slower now

an old man

gas lungs heaving

drawn to quiet places

and old, old friends