"Do you remember when we named each other
'love' beneath the willow?"
No, I'm sorry anonymous poet, I don't!
Perhaps I wasn't paying attention.
I was probably the worst for gin, in which case
I would definitely recall nothing. But what I have
no difficulty calling to mind, at even the mere
whisper of wind in the willows, is the name
|Emma having a bad hare day.|
Emma does things with withies to make your heart sing
and your spirits soar. She was born in Yorkshire in
the early 1970's with a love of nature and a talent for
drawing. By the 1990's she had gained a BA Hons in
Fine Art at Southampton and then shimmied off to the
Somerset Levels to learn all there is to know about
growing, coppicing, bundling and weaving osier.
|Stand back, let the dogs .......|
Once little Emma had taken all this knowledge on
board she returned home to her native county to begin
work as a sculptor of willow and weaver of dreams.
|.... see the rabbits!|
Her creations are much sought after and can be found in
pride of place in the grounds of stately homes, galleries
and private gardens across this fair land.
|She must have done this when she was a nipper.|
Some have even traveled across the world to Japan
and one large sculpture of the Prince of Wales beloved
Jack Russell dog "Tigga", made from willow grown on
his estate, is sitting in the gardens of Highgrove.
It was a thank you gift to the Prince for Emma's loan
from the Prince's Trust which enabled her to start
her career. How frightfully nice is that?
|They look almost real in that setting.|
Although Emma works mainly in willow she does on
occasion produce pieces in bronze and galvanized wire
and even hallmarked sterling silver as well as the
odd animal portrait.
|You will still need to mow the grass when you've got one of these.|
To see more of Emma's work and exhibitions simply
follow the link: http://www.emmastothard.com
|Up the little willow hill to Bedfordshire|
Meanwhile all around my hat I shall wear the green willow
as I try to figure out what on earth I was doing under the
trees with that poet. Perhaps I should have chewed the
leaves as the aspirin in them might have helped with
the resultant headache which followed the gin
induced amnesia. I wonder what else has slipped my mind?