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The Boobrie Den
Shapeshifts feed in a hidden cove, shedding the skins of seabirds, bulls, farm hands, and horses. They gather after centuries of luring the unsuspecting to a watery grave for sustenance and amusement. From loch and coast way, they have tread water, calling to each other with the voices of their victims, all the while their forms changing with the seasons to better sate an endless appetite.
The Red People Ride out
Gruagach
'Gruagach, i.e. long haired one from, gruag, a wig, is a common Gaelic name for a maiden, a young woman, [...] In parts of Skye, however, the fold-frequenting gruagach is a tall young man with long yellow hair in the attire of a gentleman of a bygone period, having a little switch (slatag) in his hand, and with a white breast as if he wore a frilled shirt [...] This gruagach was attentive to the herds and kept them from the rocks. He frequented certain places in the fields where the cattle were. A gruagach was to be found in every gentleman's fold (buaile), and, like the glaistig, milk had to be set apart for him every evening in a hollow in a particular stone called clach na gruagaich ('the gruagach stone')...'
- This illustration of a Long Haired One protecting a calf from abuse is inspired by the above writing of folklorist John Gregorson Campbell in 1900 (from 'Superstitions of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland') quoted in Atlas Arts Making Publics Press deeply inspiring publication ùir-sgeul by Eilidh Mackenzie as part of her incredible recent exhibition of the same name at the Skye and Lochalsh Archive Centre.
- This illustration of a Long Haired One protecting a calf from abuse is inspired by the above writing of folklorist John Gregorson Campbell in 1900 (from 'Superstitions of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland') quoted in Atlas Arts Making Publics Press deeply inspiring publication ùir-sgeul by Eilidh Mackenzie as part of her incredible recent exhibition of the same name at the Skye and Lochalsh Archive Centre.
Kitty
Freedom Dance
Countless atrocities are broadcast by the minute and are met with indifference and banknotes. Our government and media are complicit in genocide and must be held to account. We see them now, and so will history. End the starvation. End the murder. End the occupation.
Free Palestine. Free speech. Free the arts.
Palestine's Dabke, music, textiles, stories and agriculture stand, move, and soar in defiance of systemic erasure.
It is a privilege to create, for my loved ones and I to live and do so in safety. I hope this image can help those who need our support, our ears, and voices the most right now. It is available to purchase on my store. Every penny raised will go to MAP (Medical Aid for Palestinians) who are saving lives in unimaginable conditions designed by the Israeli occupation. This is about action and collective responsibility. I urge you to donate if you can.
Love and well wishes, Free Palestine.
Free Palestine. Free speech. Free the arts.
Palestine's Dabke, music, textiles, stories and agriculture stand, move, and soar in defiance of systemic erasure.
It is a privilege to create, for my loved ones and I to live and do so in safety. I hope this image can help those who need our support, our ears, and voices the most right now. It is available to purchase on my store. Every penny raised will go to MAP (Medical Aid for Palestinians) who are saving lives in unimaginable conditions designed by the Israeli occupation. This is about action and collective responsibility. I urge you to donate if you can.
Love and well wishes, Free Palestine.
Crotal
'a russet-coloured dye obtained from the lichen on rocks. Because crotal was thought always to be seeking its way back to the rocks it was believed that anyone venturing out to sea in crotal-dyed clothes would sink like a stone if he fell overboard...' - 'Skye' by Derek Cooper. An archive image of the lichen being collected from the shore inspired this image, though special spoons were used rather than blades, though the sea is seldom gentle in reclaiming its own.
Waulking the Land
Lucky Fire
For Beltane 2025
Crodh-Sìthe
The Burning
Our Good Neighbours
The Old Man in the Loch
'who, unfortunately, lost his head in a very severe storm half a century ago,' - Skye: The Island and Its Legends by Otta F. Swire (1961)
Taghairm
Left alone all night in the wilds beneath the stars and the darting people, spirits are called up from the vasty deep for answers.
The Water Bulls
Zounds!
Magic Abound in the Belly of the Earth
In the fading Cailleach Bheurra, Brìdghe slowly stirs with the promise of Spring. 'Come Brìdghe, come Brìdghe, make your bed,' dancers with linens sing round cradle and effigy of straw, shell, rush, wool, and reed. Imbolc (meaning: 'in the womb') marks the light slowly returning, so time to shake the house! Put on a bassy banger to wake the neighbours and the dead, turn the lights off, serenade a ewe, set fire to something, eat too much cheese. Clear the old, welcome the new, fan away past smoke and rave to new possibilities.
Epiphyte
A witch becomes one with the roots of the earth.
The Drummer and The Dance (P3/3)
Deep underground in the hall of the High King and Queen, Sine played for the seelie court for centuries that passed like minutes.
The Drummer and the Dead (2/3)
The weekend last 2000 years for the barred spectres. To Sine's surprise, they were sound about the turn their night had taken. They calmed it centuries back. Apologised to The Guard. Made pals with an oak in the queue. Nice boys, Sine thought, as they talked drums, incorporeality, and the line up, before carrying on into the hall.
The Drummer and the Guard (P1/3)
(2024)
Normally, the guard would uproot themselves to dispatch any who dared venture up to the hall uninvited, but they loved a good bodhrán and Sine killed it at the sessions, so they turned a blind eye just this once.
Normally, the guard would uproot themselves to dispatch any who dared venture up to the hall uninvited, but they loved a good bodhrán and Sine killed it at the sessions, so they turned a blind eye just this once.
Misdial
(2024)
A red ghost haunts a bridge over the Kilmartin river on the Isle of Skye. Across the island there are many old telephone boxes, wind battered and defunct. One near Marishadder was taken away a few years ago due to repeated storm damage. Every year it would be repaired, only for its door to be smashed or entirely ripped off again during the Winter, the cycle repeating for many years until the labour of love eventually ran its course. Each journey along our road is a reminder of its lack of use in life and absence in death, its grave marked by a mossy slab of concrete. Last year, a friend introduced me to a Speaking Stone near the Staffin slipway. The large boulder is apparently one of an island-wide network that trades and stores messages. Past, present, and future. Recently I have been thinking a lot about the old telephone box and the much older provider a few miles away. How we communicate, how we reach out to others, how the means can fail or be abandoned and its purpose forgotten. That’s not to say the Speaking Stones have been forgotten, quite the opposite, however, their signification as a means of communication certainly has. If you didn’t know about the stone’s properties, you would see it as nothing more than just that, a stone. But the red phone box certainly was forgotten, and others like it, abandoned as a means of connection. It died a strange death, like its many counterparts across the country, in plain sight, maintained to the bare minimum for aesthetic value, prosperity, or a slim chance of emergency use. Ultimately, the rival, more senior telephone provider won out. The Speaking Stones remain, and the phone booths slowly fade. The red ghost and its voice succumbed to an indifferent nature. The land and our good neighbours favouring the old ways of speaking, between time, place and people. It endures in showing up, in community, in sessions, in storytelling, and folklore. In being present with our chosen, face to face, as opposed to disembodiment. This is a very literal take. Visually on the nose, but an honest attempt to communicate these ideas. As for bird wane and cavity face flanking the box: they’re just waiting for the spirit to hang up. In the case of the rising symbols, some are the design of witches and pagans, relating specifically to Winter and the God Taranis, the rest are some faerie punk eavesdroppers and past callers on the red ghost.
A red ghost haunts a bridge over the Kilmartin river on the Isle of Skye. Across the island there are many old telephone boxes, wind battered and defunct. One near Marishadder was taken away a few years ago due to repeated storm damage. Every year it would be repaired, only for its door to be smashed or entirely ripped off again during the Winter, the cycle repeating for many years until the labour of love eventually ran its course. Each journey along our road is a reminder of its lack of use in life and absence in death, its grave marked by a mossy slab of concrete. Last year, a friend introduced me to a Speaking Stone near the Staffin slipway. The large boulder is apparently one of an island-wide network that trades and stores messages. Past, present, and future. Recently I have been thinking a lot about the old telephone box and the much older provider a few miles away. How we communicate, how we reach out to others, how the means can fail or be abandoned and its purpose forgotten. That’s not to say the Speaking Stones have been forgotten, quite the opposite, however, their signification as a means of communication certainly has. If you didn’t know about the stone’s properties, you would see it as nothing more than just that, a stone. But the red phone box certainly was forgotten, and others like it, abandoned as a means of connection. It died a strange death, like its many counterparts across the country, in plain sight, maintained to the bare minimum for aesthetic value, prosperity, or a slim chance of emergency use. Ultimately, the rival, more senior telephone provider won out. The Speaking Stones remain, and the phone booths slowly fade. The red ghost and its voice succumbed to an indifferent nature. The land and our good neighbours favouring the old ways of speaking, between time, place and people. It endures in showing up, in community, in sessions, in storytelling, and folklore. In being present with our chosen, face to face, as opposed to disembodiment. This is a very literal take. Visually on the nose, but an honest attempt to communicate these ideas. As for bird wane and cavity face flanking the box: they’re just waiting for the spirit to hang up. In the case of the rising symbols, some are the design of witches and pagans, relating specifically to Winter and the God Taranis, the rest are some faerie punk eavesdroppers and past callers on the red ghost.
The Dying Time
(2024)
During the festival of Samhain, the portals of the otherworld open, permitting the dead and faeries to roam the night free. At this time, to appease the darkness and ensure the survival of the community and its livestock through the harsh winter months, great fires were lit and the spirits fed with offerings of food and drink. In keeping with this ancient tradition, an assembly of Guisers feed the night and its unseen mouths by the fire’s embers.
During the festival of Samhain, the portals of the otherworld open, permitting the dead and faeries to roam the night free. At this time, to appease the darkness and ensure the survival of the community and its livestock through the harsh winter months, great fires were lit and the spirits fed with offerings of food and drink. In keeping with this ancient tradition, an assembly of Guisers feed the night and its unseen mouths by the fire’s embers.
Cernunnos
(2024)
An imagining of the ancient Gaulish God of nature, animals, fertility, and defiant local identity in the face of invasion. Drawing this in the Autumn months, I chose to show this Horned God shifting with the seasons, from verdant Summer to the decay of Autumn.
An imagining of the ancient Gaulish God of nature, animals, fertility, and defiant local identity in the face of invasion. Drawing this in the Autumn months, I chose to show this Horned God shifting with the seasons, from verdant Summer to the decay of Autumn.
An Offering
(2024)
A devotee pays tribute to a river deity.
A devotee pays tribute to a river deity.
Playtime
(2024)
After hours, among what remains of St. Peter’s Seminary, two children play in the shadows. This drawing is inspired by a visit to this incredible graffitied and overgrown example of brutalist architecture abandoned in Cardross. It was a joy to explore with a group of friends, a place of decay and rebirth, coated in layers of uncanny urban folk art.
After hours, among what remains of St. Peter’s Seminary, two children play in the shadows. This drawing is inspired by a visit to this incredible graffitied and overgrown example of brutalist architecture abandoned in Cardross. It was a joy to explore with a group of friends, a place of decay and rebirth, coated in layers of uncanny urban folk art.
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