artycelia.com

Celia in the early 80's (Oh dear, I thought I looked so stylish!) I can remember having this picture taken. It is a photograph, not a snap. I had to pose, I was very tall (well, funnily enough, I still am) and very slim and noticeably young and fancied myself as super model material. I was a bit premature on that front as the real supermodels were still struggling to make names for themselves back then, in fact the term wouldn't be christened for a couple more years. I sent the photo to a modelling agency in Mayfair. I didn't hear anything from the agency so just carried on in my job as a clerical officer at the Greater London Council. Then one day I had a phone call at work, a personal phone call which was very frowned upon. It was a man calling from the agency in Mayfair asking me where I was. I was flustered and replied that I was at work. He went on in a dramatic fashion to say that the studio had been set up and the photographer was waiting for me. I didn't kno

Douglas Coupland is a Canadian novelist/artist/designer who creates visual masterpieces, one of his pieces is a poster reading, " I Miss My Pre-Internet Brain," He has designed many more since this one which was included as part of the collection: "Welcome to the 21st Century." Coupland is sixty years old, a few years older than me and, like me, lucky enough to have owned a pre-internet brain and can therefore compare past and present. It's quite a concept and makes me feel privileged to have been born in the 1960's, among a generation of children who may well have been the last to grow up in a world of self-discovery, wonder, curiosity, and creativity. (Without the internet) A big joy of childhood was the library, a big quiet building where one could wander for ages and ages and go home with lots of dusty books to investigate, to enjoy, or not to enjoy, everyone was a new discovery. Compared to today when you know exactly what you want to read, yo

Every summer I think to myself, 'Hmm, can I still get away with my fave little shorts or am I officially TOO OLD?' According to a lot of blogs aimed at 'women my age' I should have ditched most of my wardrobe by now and be wearing more 'age appropriate' clobber. I tried that and looked like a cardboard cut-out of 'middle aged woman' and felt like one. I've lied about my age for ages now, even my daughters don't know how old I am. A pharmacist in Boots called out my real age the other day and I realised that I had completely ignored her, she gave me a withering look, I shrugged and looked away before silently accepting the blood pressure tablets. I don't feel old, don't look particularly old so why should I dress old? I like wearing purple, but not with a red hat...yet.

This is a photograph of me and my eldest daughter, she is thirty-two years old now. The photo was taken by her granddad on holiday in Spain. I had Emily when I was twenty-three. I had no plan for our lives, other than to be happy. The early years of my marriage and motherhood were lovely. We owned our house (well, with a mortgage) my husband had an excellent job in The City, and I was a stay-at-home mum. Me and Emily had a blissful couple of years. Then when I was pregnant with my second child, my husband lost his job and the recession kicked in. Our riches turned to poverty. Our freedoms turned into prisons. The prison of poverty and depression. My husband fell into a despair. But I had two young people to nurture. A lot of people were in the same boat, and we all helped each other out, some managed to stay strong while others fell by the wayside. Then circumstances picked up again and we were OK for a while. My husband chose to spend a lot of time in the pub, but that was

Oil on wood by Celia Turner. Have had to spend the day doing BDT's (Boring domestic tasks) today. That's hoovering, (which is quite difficult as my dog absolutely hates the hoover. I must constantly throw his ball for him with one hand and hoover with the other) Ironing, dusting, waxing furniture etc. Boring, boring, boring. The good news is this painting, I found, tucked away in an old portfolio. I'm sure it is one of a set that I painted some time ago. The bad news is that I turned my studio upside down trying to find the others.

How can one describe the excitement the artist feels at her easel? How can one describe the obscure thought processes that conjure up a picture that absolutely needs to be painted? Why, when I am feeling creative do I feel that Iam living more 'fully' than during the rest of my life? Creativity: The Work and Lives of 91 Eminent People is a study published in 1996 by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. (Harper Collins) In my case I am describing an artist as in a girl standing at her easel but of course creativity is a phenomenon itself too difficult to describe easily. The report suggests that creative people tend to have good physical energy but are also often quiet and rest. We can be smart yet naive. We combine playfulness and discipline. Although we may alternate between imagination and fantasy, we also have a rooted sense of reality. We can be both introverted and extroverted. Humble and proud. Rebellious and conservative. Passionate but objective about our work.

The Tooth Fairy. Oil on canvas.  Celia Turner. A little while ago I found myself sitting in the dentist's waiting room. I don't mind visiting the dentist, in fact I quite enjoy it, so different is the experience compared to when I was a child. Back then it was such a gruesome affair, brutal even, compared to modern day dentistry   I remember the waiting room of yesteryear, extremely uncomfortable rickety chairs, peeling paint and pictures of gnarled old trees adorned the walls. My brothers and I would make up stories about those trees, anything to keep our minds from Mr Paddyachy, he of the white coat and cruel intentions. In the surgery of modern times there are no pictures or peeling paint. On the wall is a flat screen television. Sky News is on all the time. We, the patients, are treated to scenes of utter devastation, tiny babies being pulled from the aftermath of an earthquake, dusty faces, and bewildered eyes stare at us from the ruins. We see a shot of a bedroom