The Small Furniture

a collection of weeks

I can't believe it's already Friday (says every older person everywhere). Time slides past at a rapid pace. Why do the first 18 years of life go at a snail's pace and then pick up speed steadily thereafter? Do our developing brains perceive time differently?

Regardless, here I am sitting in my favourite chair by the open window. Today's song endlessly loops on my headphones as I write. A strong matcha over ice in a tall blue handblown glass from Terra Studios in Arkansas will light the fire within. 

I am going to take a page out of my friend Julia's wonderful blog this week, and perhaps just share a few flashes from my week. 

You can see the paintings (above) in progress on my easel from the weekly prompted sessions with my mother. Last Sunday, I didn't have much in me, but I did work on two pieces rather than just one even if it was mostly just painting things black. Progress, not perfection, and all that. 

But I have gotten ahead of myself. On Saturday there was the Stop Trump Rally and demonstrations at various locations across Scotland. I went along with my neighbours and it was good to see so many people out and outraged.

Scots give good signage

On the way home, after the protest, I took a photo of the St. Columba's Charity Shop window as they do a good job of their display. It is always full of colour, pattern, and a sense of nostalgia. I needed and enjoyed the visual relief.

Charity shop vibes

On Monday, I took a bright neighbourhood walk around some of my favourite parts of the Water of Leith. I have been dealing with a random hip injury and haven't been walking quite as much this past month. The sun was bright and lovely and the sky was blue. I went to visit my Scottish friend tree (my original friend tree, was my childhood touchstone back in Arkansas). I was unnerved to find my local tree had been cut back significantly by the council. I hate that it has been disturbed but I also know it was diseased in parts and they seem to be doing a very careful job trimming it. I must have faith that it is being cared for and not that it is about to be destroyed - that would be too much for me to bear. I told it that it was strong and resilient, and to root down and resist if needed. I kissed its knobbly bark and thanked it for its grounding presence in my life. I have two wee branches of it now in my home - I love it so.

water of leith

Scottish friend tree

On Tuesday, I met my pal Julia in the city centre for lunch and a blether. We met on the steps of the National Museum of Scotland on Chambers Street. It was a strange thrill to sit on the big steps and wait for my pal. I have always liked sitting on the sidewalks/pavements and I used to say that anywhere I could do that, I felt at home.

School children waited in a line with their minders to go in and have a big adventure. It brought to mind field trips of my youth, and how exciting it felt to be somewhere new as a group - wild, free, and out of the classroom! 

Waiting on a friend

this must be the place

During our outing, I spied some handmade dollhouse furniture in the window of a charity shop in Morningside. I exclaimed when I saw it and had that instant rush of being pretty sure that I needed it in my life. My palms tingled - the same way they do when I see art that I resonate with - that "got to have it" energy flooded my system, worried someone might beat me to it. But it was doll house furniture... Did I really need it... What would I do with it? Why did I love it so much and what did it really represent?

I took a picture of it in the window and looked at the picture the whole time we were browsing inside. Never one to make a rash decision, we left the shop to look at a few others nearby, but I was distracted, still itchy and worried someone might get it. We walked back up the street and looked in at it one more time, and the tears came. I had to have it. It didn't matter if it didn't make sense; it made sense to me. It represented something important to me - it reminded me of home, my mother, and my brothers. It reminded me of the dollhouses and the furniture that they made together late at night for me after my mom had worked all day. It reminded me of all the love and care that goes into the making. It deserved a good home that would understand and love it the right way. I needed my mother to see it and to know that I was thinking of her.

When I walked in to buy it, the relief was immediate. The shop volunteer called out for an assistant to come and retrieve the pieces from the window. I caught the eye of a man who smiled at me knowingly regarding the handcrafted treasure I would be taking home. I was excited to unveil it to my mother over a video call a couple of hours later. She understood and appreciated it just like I did. It was worth every penny.

On Wednesday and Thursday, I was busily back at work, but rest assured, the small furniture was set up nearby so I could steal glances at it.

I am thankful for the moments of joy and the crashing waves of sadness. I am grateful that I feel big emotions and that I have friends and trees that I can share them with. I am grateful for the family that created me and shaped the things I value.

Here’s to the things that bring us joy and tears. Until next week, keep fighting for all your small furniture moments.

Two steps forward (six steps back)

neighbourhood feverfew

Hello Dear Readers,

This past week was hard for a variety of reasons.However, last Sunday provided a bright spot - I had the chance to spend some time with my pal, Annie. We went to Söderberg near the meadows where I was treated to two cups of wonderful matcha and a vegan fruit and nut bar. Everything was lovely, we split our time between the outdoor seating with its collegiate vibes and the minimalist cafe's natural light filled interior. We had some laughs, took some photos, and had a right old blether.

I returned to my home to participate in a new ritual. For the last three Sundays, my mother and I have been holding each other accountable and focussing on making art. To quote Martha Stewart, "It's a good thing." Speaking of, I happened to watch a documentary this week on Martha that was strangely soothing.

On my side of the Atlantic, I worked on a small canvas painting while my mother worked on finishing up an abstracted mythical bird sculpture. My painting didn't quite come together as in previous weeks, but something showed up and that is good enough. I am glad my mother and I can encourage each other from a distance.

fire on the hills of yesterday

15x15cm/ 5.9x5.9” mixed media on canvas 2025 Megan Chapman

£45 & free UK 2nd class shipping

Besides painting, I managed a bit of genealogy. Genealogy is usually my rainy, dark season hobby so researching family ghosts in the summer is a solace seeking measure. I even went to the local library to access their database - mostly just for the change of scenery. My mother has been telling me some poetic stories about the family so it's at the forefront of my mind. I imagine these stories will be explored in a new series at some point.

This week also consisted of meetings, work, some classic avoidance techniques, frustration, tears, and strange dreams. A rare Chinese meal was ordered and delivered and an online community was joined and then promptly quit. A podcast was listened to and shared, and there was a tram journey into the city centre where I took a tourist photo of the castle on the rock watching over us all. At home she feels like a tourist.

A sadness seems to sit in my bones so careworn.
And tomorrow Scotland takes to the streets.
Keep fighting.

I hear the earth turning

Studio still life: Vase by Chris Donnelly Ceramics 
Next to a card featuring a print of West Highland Landscape by Barbara Rae. 

I woke with a start at 4 A.M. after having a waking dream about my job.

At 6 A.M. I am drinking a strong matcha and listening to one song on repeat on my big headphones with my windows open. I have sat down in my favourite chair to write this. If you missed last week's post you can find it here.

This week went quickly.

There was a bit of local charity shopping, new matcha and the associated accoutrements arrived in the post, the crocosmia lucifer flashed red in the garden along with the geranium. 

I met my pal Julia for a spontaneous wander on Sunday to the City Art Centre to enjoy Out of Chaos: Post-War Scottish Art 1945-2000. The exhibition didn't disappoint with several personal favourites. West Highland Landscape by Barbara Rae stole the show and practically vibrated off the orange wall it was placed on. It is probably my most favourite painting by Rae that I have seen so far. It was a perfect study in composition, colour, and expression. Both my pal and I left the exhibition with a printed version of the painting on a card from the giftshop. Prints don't do this work justice though, so if you are able please go see it yourself. No photos were allowed of the exhibition or I would have shared some here, so again, go see it. 

Next we wandered through the city centre and I introduced Julia to the work of Michael McVeigh the artist who I had met the week before. It was good to chat with him again while enjoying his work. 

Afterwards, we enjoyed our supermarket lunch on a park bench in Princes Street Gardens and happened upon the vibrant sounds and colours of the Edinburgh Festival Carnival. We then moved on to the RSA for the Paul Furneaux exhibition, 旅路 | Tabiji - Journey (with wonderment) It is a gorgeous, jewel-like exhibition. 

It was a lovely and spontaneous Sunday, filled with all the best parts of living in this city and enjoying it all with a good friend.

Later that evening, I worked on another small painting. I have returned to the inspiration from a series I began in 2004 or so. I will write more about this in a future post. 

I hear the earth turning 15x15cm/ 5.9x5.9” mixed media on canvas 2025 Megan Chapman
£45 & free UK 2nd class shipping

Then on Monday it was back into the city centre for a different kind of art. My pal Anthea and I met up for a gorgeous fancy vegan/vegetarian lunch at David Bann, a gift I had received from my oldest brother for Christmas. We both dressed in bright saturated colours by chance and pretty much laughed the whole time - we played the part of ladies who lunch but with an edge, expertly. It was great fun and the decadent food was a rare treat that I was delighted to be able to share. By the way, I met my pal, Anthea in March at a movie screening - just two folks who crossed paths around a shared interest and then became fast friends. As I noted in my post last week, it's good to talk to strangers! 

Selections from the set lunch menu at David Bann
Thanks again, to my brother Ben for this lovely gift

Then it was back to life, back to reality, and back to work and here we are at the weekend once again. I plan to rest, talk to family and friends, sit in the garden, and paint.

Every day we reach out, set boundaries, and take care to express ourselves through art and action (however we are able - quietly or loud) is a victory.

Thank you for being here. Keep fighting!

Remember

Remember, 15x15cm/5.9x5.9" mixed media on canvas 2025 Megan Chapman
£45 & free UK 2nd class shipping

I am talking to strangers on the street, at the bus stops, in shops, and on the pavements as they clean out their cars. I am talking to them like they are long lost friends and they are letting me. We are laughing, sharing, and relating - we talk about music, politics, and despair. We share favourite bands - an obscure Interpol song radiates out of a car window. We smile, we nod, and we bond. 

A woman takes a photo of something I'm wearing - a shared political belief. The artist on the corner tells me about his paintings and challenges my history. We laugh, we know, we have lived similar lives.

The worker in the tea shop enjoys our banter and gives me my matcha for free. I'm touched, I'm thankful, my day made. 

I find more things I need and some things I don't on the street. A friend helps and supports me with a task and then we eat strawberries in the sun. 

Old things remind me of who I am and new things flesh it out even more. My hair grows longer and a bit wild. Glances shared through windows, laughter of later stories. Daisy bouquets and sunshine. 

I am okay. 

I am okay. 

I am okay. 

The strangers tell me so. 

This gift remains

Little Edie Flag Dance, Grey Gardens, Maysles Brothers' Film 1976

It's the 4th of July and while not patriotic, it is still an atmosphere that I can easily recall: a hot, sticky, Arkansas summer. Picnic tables at the park, Mom's amazing BBQ baked beans, hot dogs, and watching the country club's fireworks from a distance at the picnic table on the side of Mt. Sequoyah, and then later the fireworks at the Northwest Arkansas Mall. Bottle Rockets (and getting hit in the neck with a bottle rocket - thanks, Sean). The smell of burning snakes (not real snakes) as they undulated on the pavement. A feeling of a bit more freedom and extra wildness, walking the hot streets in the neighborhood to the pool with my friend, Annie. Vivid summer memories of childhood. 

But today, my brain has other plans—today it feels like the hashbrowns at the Waffle House (another American institution). Today, I am scattered, smothered, and covered... if you know, you know. This 4th of July I am anxious, angry, and fretful.

Today, the sky is grey and featureless as little Edie from Grey Gardens does her perpetual flag dance, frozen in time on my computer screen. Rain starts to fall on the pane of the tilted open window and I am a bit cold and far from home and the people I love. 

The US government did a bad, bad thing yesterday, and it all feels a bit much. I soothe myself by looking at and crying over Bruegel paintings. Yes, really. It's all right there. The paintings of Bruegel and Bosch were my version of Where's Waldo. Certain paintings become touchstones for grounding. These paintings serve as kinship and provide strength and a knowing. Like holding up a mirror passed through the family for decades—all your people have gazed in the same glass, and they are still there with you now.

The Triumph of Death, oil on panel c. 1562
117 cm × 162 cm (46 in × 63.8 in) Pieter Bruegel the Elder
Museo del Prado, Madrid

In these hard and strange times, I am so grateful to have this type of relationship with art. To be able to slow down and just go into a painting, to know a painting, to feel the support of a painting, to marvel and dream over a painting. To feel seen and known by a painting and to know it in return. It's a rare gift that I credit my parents for making  available to me through the prints on the walls and the books on the shelves in our little home in Arkansas.

No matter where I am or what happens, this gift remains. 

I still shake

Above the old studio sink

Hello Dear Readers, Friday finds us again.

Thank you for spending some time with me in a world that is always pulling at your attention and lifeforce. Last week's post seemed to be a popular one, and I am glad it resonated. 

This hasn't been a great week, but there have still been moments of beauty and laughter, as well as tears. I took time for it all.

I have decided that I must approach things differently. It's once again time to reframe, change, embrace, and accept. Of course, it is always this time unless one is fighting against the very nature of life. I am actually pretty good at doing this - I can be pretty stubborn. I am a fixer and an optimist, a hard worker and much of the time, a black and white thinker. These qualities can serve me well to a point and these traits can also make things harder than necessary. I embrace my hardwired tendencies and breathe into what I can soften and release. 

This week, I walked more and listened to nature's lessons. 

As I think many of you have gathered, my art "career" is not the same as it once was, my feelings and motivations towards it have changed a lot since the pandemic as well as from all I have learned through my involvement with the Scottish Artists Union. I no longer work the same way as I did. Some of this is okay with me and some of it, is not. 

The arts (in all of its forms) was such a huge part of who I was as a child, how I was raised, what I valued and how I perceived my value. I credit art with "rewiring" my brain, giving me a purpose, and helping me make sense of the world and my place in it. Art built my confidence and gave me a shorthand language to help me find others that I could understand and who would understand me. Art supported me emotionally, spiritually, sometimes financially, and gave me a sense of community. 

Most of my friends are artists or in creative fields of practice and many of them have also changed the way they work. We talk about it differently now, in a wistful way. Longing for something that was lost. Back before algorithms, likes, and shares - or back to when likes and shares still equaled opportunities and income. Back before we realised how much all the open calls were costing us, before we realised the labour involved in pursuing speculative opportunities that seemed to generate income for everyone but the artists. Back when we had that hungry energy when we were younger. 

How do we peel it all back and begin again? What systems need creating to make it work? What is the goal now? How do you keep expressing and creating when you are the only audience for your work and your storage space and finances are limited? How do you remain committed to the creative practice when the world seems committed to misunderstanding it and you? 

How do you ignore the pressures of society to protect the tiny flame within?

I think you tell the truth. I think you keep showing up, even if showing up looks different now. I think you keep walking in nature, and realising the value of all things that feed the creative work. I think you get quiet and maybe a little angry. 

And you create to please yourself, to calm, soothe, explore, excavate and exorcise. I think you meditate and cry and limit the bullshit from taking root. 

Why would the path look the same as it did five, ten, or twenty five years ago? It wouldn't. We've changed, the world has changed, the internet has changed, galleries have changed, motivations have changed and this is simply the nature of things. 

Art is the constant, even in fits and starts. From youth to now, I think about it, write about it, talk about it, work around it, create it, cry and worry over it, and feel its exaltation.

I let go of what was, accept what is, and do not fear the future, but I still shake.

A shift in the weather

Time folds in on itself

Co-Star Mic Drop 

I am having frequent migraines, I am working more hours than usual, and there is still never enough time to get things done. My life's work is largely ignored and my anxiety grows. I am avoiding the news because I can't think about war.

Time folds in on itself - how did we all get so old. 

I slept until my alarm chimed bird sounds at 7am. This is a rare occurrence.

My dreams were wild but not memorable, only the feeling and flashes of colour left behind. This is my weekend now, time to recover and regroup but I already feel the weight of obligation and the plans I made for myself. 

I am tired and on shaky ground, yet I will it solid. As I type these dour words I think, what a bummer of an intro, surely this can't stand. I will delete and share the beauty and lightness that I also found this week. Because I can always find it.

If resilience is a curse, I have been hexed. 

Remember too, this place is a creative exercise. Perhaps the only creativity I will experience in the week. I like putting words together. 

The words are partly crafted from the music playing in my big headphones, Marconi Union, Brian Eno, Hammock, Nils Frahm - icy and atmospheric on a warm June morning. Music for introspection - like I need any encouragement. 

I want to write, I think you are beautiful. But who am I thinking of, I do not know. 

I think you are beautiful. 

I walked. I watched a show everyone is talking about. I listened to an audiobook. I have sat in the garden in the sun, knee deep in buttercups and daisies, punctuated by poppies and foxgloves. I am going to see live music on Sunday and Monday. I have talked to friends - human and the furry kind and I have harvested fresh spinach.

I have made good food and healthy drinks, enjoyed naps, yoga and breathing exercises. See what I am doing? I can't help it. 

If resilience is a curse, I have been hexed. 

Susumu Yokota comes on my headphones - glorious. I was trying to be reminded of this album. There are no accidents. 

and I still think you are beautiful.