Natalie Zervou reflects on her recent Hatching residency

They said she swallowed her words,
Circles and squares and all sorts.
Scratchy throat chakra.
Ikea bag blue.
Big enough to hold all the symbols on the page.
The rage.
A boat for my kids.
I’ll toss those handles over my shoulder and we’ll swing
Over silent words and roaring waves.
A new line to cross.
A new word to trace.

The above poem was written on my first day of my Hatching Residency at The Nest. The sandy coloured wood chip floor, compressed, a clock ticking, my mind taking note of each second. Committing myself to not rushing or feeling rushed, yet the sound reminding me that these opportunities to reflect, research and make without pressure of a final outcome are rare. My daughter says goodbye through teary eyes and asks ‘Is it a mummy/Theia day – a phrase she uses for days when we have each other for ourselves. Not today. Today is about acclimatising to the space I have entered, to being curious, to time. I read, listen, watch interviews, and stretch.

I look inside my bulging blue IKEA bag, like the ingredients of a Ready, Steady Cook package, I examine each, and wonder what might be baked, kneaded or stewed from these materials. The sandy coloured wood floor begins to get sprinkled with materials. I hesitate starting anything physical. I stutter at starts and this tide is luxurious… bathing in time I didn’t know was possible.

Time is ticking swiftly this week. I learn olive seeds are used to make Islamic misbaha, Greek komboloi (worry beads) and Catholic rosaries. I buy and eat some olives. The seed is a metaphor for this (albeit cheesy, can’t do cheese) growing of ideas. I am thinking about how materials and symbols may act as carriers of voice, like Hermes the Greek God of communication and so many gods of voice and sound. I learn that sand primarily symbolizes the shifting, transient nature of life, the boundary between land and sea, and the inevitability of change. I mix sand with glue and butter a thick layer of it onto the shapes I have been carving; a new, old or hidden voice emerging and taking shape.

I listen to ‘A brush with…’ podcast by the art historian Ben Luke. The artist Emma Talbot has moved to Italy. On the podcast she talks about how she didn’t really get it before, but now she can speak the language, she has fallen deeply in love with Italy. She is finally ‘part of the life of the place’, and learning the language has utterly transformed her life. It feels very profound. My father died in 2020, he was Greek and although spoke English, he was very much a non-native speaker. Words between us would at times get lost, and because I never lived with him, we spoke English when we saw each other. I think about the conversations we might have had if I spoke fluent Greek. That thought is then replaced with the reminders of the deep rooted connections that exist between those who don’t share the same spoken language and the hierarchies that exist in communication.

How things that are felt rather than spoken can feel even more important, rich and layered, like adding gravy to mash, a duvet on a bed. I try to make some of my work ‘float’ and practicalities are taking time, clock still ticking, wood chipped floor now fully embedded. Janet, Derek and Emily all offer a hand in helping me resolve the problem. I feel so grateful to all these humans, the many hands that it takes to get things done. This space that did not just exist but was intentionally created to serve a purpose, provide opportunities. Grateful to the minds that came together, with the foundations to hold, accept and trust.

I have come to the end of the residency. I have made nine sculptures, the final single-digit, the end of a cycle. They exist as one, all chatting simultaneously, like the tabs in my brain. I think about the rubble on building sites, ancient ruins and the dots we need to join to make the picture. I think about things falling from the sky and landing perfectly. Butterside up facing the sky, 5 second rule. Finally, I make a rock and cover it with walnut rain, nutty symbols of Zeus, God of the Sky. I make friends with the fly whose sudden buzzing disturbs my thoughts. This feels like progress. My heart sinks when I find it flattened in the wet paint, drunk on sap and sensation. I do not remove the fly, it lives on in the work.