Into The Light | Curated Collections I
Posted by Kim Soep on
'Into The Light' is the first in our series of Curated Collections, a programme of online exhibitions intended to introduce new and budding collectors to artists in our roster by way of thoughtful and approachable themes and discourse.
Bringing together artwork from across Broth's roster, 'Into The Light' is an online exhibition of paintings, sculpture, printmaking, textile and more, that invites viewers to experience light not just as a natural phenonemon but as a symbol for enlightenment, hope, positivity and betterment.
Each artwork in the collection is £500 and below and is accompanied by a statement that explains why it was selected and how it aligns with the collection's theme. Click on an artwork and discover more!
To expand on our current curated collection 'Into The Light', I’ve written a piece that reflects on a childhood memory of mine. I am not a writer by any stretch of the imagination, but I was compelled to share this. It recounts a time I found myself in complete darkness – an experience that’s shaped my perception of light and dark, identifying their kinship and how neither one can exist without the other. The exhibition 'Into The Light' serves as both a presentation of light as an elemental force and a metaphor for human experience. This is my experience.
I remember running away from home once. It wasn’t for long, I mean, I doubt anyone even noticed that I was gone. I didn’t even go very far, I just hid around the corner in between the beech hedge and the side of the house, willing someone to come look for me. I’m sure you’re all wondering if this even counts as a child running away from home – I know I am. All I know is that I’d made a decision that night that enough was enough and I was leaving. My eyes were still burning from the tears when I stepped into my wellies and snuck out the backdoor into the night. The kitchen window looked out onto the back gate so I clung to the shadows, hoping mum wouldn’t see me – everyone else was in the den watching TV. Where we lived, there were no streetlights. Our nearest neighbour was the farmer who lived further up the track, and the small village where I went to school was too small and too far away to emit any light. The darkness startled me at first, but I was still reeling from the row at dinner. “Just you wait, when they realise I’m gone, they’ll be sorry”. I sidestepped into the narrow passage between the house and hedge, slinking into the shadows -I’d wait here until the coast was clear.
I wasn’t a particularly brave girl if that’s what you’re thinking. I slept with the door ajar and the hallway light on. The dark was as scary for me as it was for any other 7-year-old. But like I said, I was preoccupied. From my hiding place I could hear the clink and clang of dishes being washed, dried and put away. The light from the kitchen window, punctuated by mum’s moving shadow, cast a soft glow over the back garden. When the time was right, I’d make my escape through the gate.
Quite suddenly, with the flick of a switch, everything was thrown into complete darkness - mum had left the kitchen. At first, there was nothing to hear, nothing to see, nothing to feel. Just the heavy press of pitch-black nothingness. The air was thick, I felt like I was suffocating. I could feel the terror rising within me. And just when I thought I might lose myself to the might of it all, when I thought the darkness would swallow me whole, something beckoned me to look up. Stars. So many stars. A luminous sea swirling overhead, glittering and shimmering. I don’t think it made sense to me then – I was too young - but the comfort I took from the effervescent night sky was a knowing that I wasn’t alone. Somehow, I was a part of this greatness.
I reacquainted myself with the world around me. The blackness had lifted. Formless shadows were reconfiguring into tangible shapes. I could see the leafy beech hedge in front of me and the garden gate to my side – even the daisies carpeting the ground on either side of the path where I stood were coming into view. I could hear the sheep in the adjacent field and the cows lowing in the distance. And with all these familiar sights and sounds came a tremendous sense of peace. I let out a big sigh and sunk down onto the ground.
“They must be wondering where I am.” I thought to myself. “Anytime now, they’ll realise I’m gone and come looking.”
I contemplated my next move whilst running my hands over the springy carpet of daisies. Did you know common daisies (the ones you get in your lawn) go to sleep at night? In fact, their name which comes from the Old English for ‘day’s eye’ characterises their tendency to stay open during the day and closed at night. I looked at their little white lashes knitted shut and remembered bedtime wasn’t faraway. That’s when my family would finally realise, I was missing. I played it all out in my head: it would dawn on them that I’d run away; they’d feel terrible for all the horrible things they’d said, Dad would come out with a torch, calling my name whilst Mum anxiously phoned friends and neighbours. Dad would come home shaking his head. Mum would start crying, my brother and sister too. And just as Dad desperately picked up the phone to call the police, I would walk through the door. Elated, everyone would hug and say how sorry they were.
But then, a shriek cut through the hush of the night. At first, I thought it was an animal in distress, or worse, a child, lost and calling out in fear. There it was again, a sound carved out of darkness itself, something unnatural was out there. I froze, heart hammering.
The older boys at school had told us about these white furry creatures with red eyes and sharp teeth called Figgiwits. They preyed on animals like rabbits and deer, but also small children if the opportunity presented itself. Sensitive to light, they hunted only at night. By day, they took refuge in the darkness of the forestry. Was this a Figgiwit I could hear? The next cry was closer. And louder. I couldn’t bear it. A flash of white swooped over me and into the field, which sent me scrambling to my feet. I ran as fast as I could, up the steps and through the back door. I switched the lights on and quickly shut the door, locking it behind me. The light gave me instant reprieve - I was safe.
Having caught my breath, I hung up my fleece and stepped out my wellies and walked down the hall towards the familiar sounds of Blind Date. I could hear the drum roll as the door slid back to reveal the winning contestant, followed by the loud collective cheer from the audience. I peered round into the den where everyone was sitting. No one noticed as I crept sheepishly into the back of the room and perched quietly on the arm of the settee, where my wee brother was lain. Cilla Black had everyone hooked as she handed the envelopes to the contestants – where were they going? “Liverpool!” the female contestant read and laughed along with the audience.
Resigned to the fact that my running-away had gone completely unnoticed, I turned to my brother and asked him to “budge up”. His attention to the TV unfaltering, he crawled over to the other end as I slid down to watch the rest of Blind Date.
Written by Kim Soep, 2024
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- Tags: budding collectors, collect art, curated collection, into the light, light, new collectors, online exhibition, £500 and below