Booking the village Hall for 'the purposes of art', as I filled in on the form, caused a flurry of confusion amongst committee members.

What exactly do you mean?  Of course, you're going to paint there, no?

I'm not really sure what I'll do.

How many people will be there?

Just me.

So you're not running a class or a workshop?

No

Making crafts. You're selling crafts yes?

No,  I'm not sure if I'll make anything.

Ah,  you're going to draw?

Well yes maybe.

That's fine then. Now that we understand, the booking can go ahead.

One hour, one space. No studio clutter, no interruptions from squabbling siblings, no pressure to produce a finished product. Just one large, empty silent room. I locked all the doors and closed the ground level curtains. The items I had brought with me were;

A pair of roller blades (I'd like to point out I am a complete amateur)
a large roll of wallpaper
a bowl, a brush and some olive oil
a copy of the village pantomime Babes in the Wood

I spent some time rollerblading around the space, seeing what it felt like to have that whole area to myself, to really experience what it meant to have all of it. It was actually quite exhilarating.

Getting to grips with it in such a physical way,  drawing in a sense again and again, became a process of understanding. After about half an hour (and to catch my breath) I decided to move on. I dragged the wallpaper in and rolled it out the full length of the hall,  intending to draw with the olive oil. I wrestled with the paper to turn it over and somehow the physicality of moving the material around in the space was all I wanted to do. I abandoned the use of any additional material and spent the last half hour exploring the possibilities of the paper and the space.

I moved the paper around the hall and up onto the stage. I lifted it above my head and crawled under it the full length of the hall and onto the stage area. In the empty space the experience was not only visual and physical but made the most wonderful sound as the paper crumpled and swished across the floor. I loved it. I took video footage and a handfull of images to draw from in future work perhaps. I wanted to stick exactly to the hour. It passed really quickly. I hadn't planned the outcome of this session. I hadn't considered how the sheer size of the space would demand such a physical response.  It was a complete revelation as to how exhausting and satisfying this whole process of exploring this space has been.

Next, I hope to hire the Methodist church hall opposite my house, an entirely different space, impregnated with a history of the village. I've no idea how it will turn out.

'Look at this. Who can say it isn't beautiful? Sky, bricks. Who do you think lives there? Four-car garage. Hope, fear, excitement, satisfaction...'

A much loved clip from True Stories with David Byrne.

I live in a village. On the surface, every house is pretty much the same, but of course, behind closed doors, all manner of life is played out.

The last video I posted was a totally random juxtaposition of events, an unplanned recording from a domestic incident, a faulty smoke alarm, some philosophical pondering. I chose it for a number of reasons. It seemed to have some of the elements I'm looking for in this space -

Reside - created for the artist who proves highly unsuitable for any other residency. Reside mines the immediate landscape of the artist's day to day life.

Aspects which make me unsuitable for residencies.

1. I have no time. (big families and the need to make money to eat dictate this).
2. I can't travel - (I would no doubt benefit from a residency in the Antartic but I have to be back each day for school pick up.)

So here's my plan. I want to hire the spaces in my immediate vicinity - the village halls, church halls etc, one a month, for one hour. Between the badminton club and the yoga group, the scrabble club and the pre-school, my residency will sit. I will enter a contract and own that space for one hour. I will make my residency to suit myself. What will I do when I get there? I'm really not sure, and to be truthful, I'm a little scared...