Ramblings of a Wildlife Artist

Part II-by Lindsey Foggett

And you thought you were getting an innocent artist newsletter telling you what animal she chased, what amazing painting she painted, what new prints are out, what exciting adventure to make our lives seem dull she's been on. Well now for something completely different.........being British, you know the rebellious, non-conformist, let’s say it like it is, freedom of speech type, (I think I have been in America too long) I thought, rather, lets forget the painting bit and get to the real juicy part, like why the heck do I do this?  Where does it all come from?  Where did my parents go so wrong?  And at just what age should I have started counseling? Apparently that would be at about the age of 5.  For those of you who actually read last years news letter, I am sorry I am not starting at the red light section of my life as I thought a little explanation was in need here....plus its me, I write like I talk, there will be a  LOT of words to come. I have to keep your attention on my career somehow. 

As I was saying, not that long ago when I was five, I decided I wanted to be a successful wildlife artist (I have noticed many artists realize it around this time, it must be our peak intuitive age) I am not sure if I understood the true nature of the word success, that was more attributed to whether you could get mummy to give you the whole bag of sweeties (candies) rather than just one or two.  But as the word “successful” rarely gets linked with the word “artist” for a large portion of their career, it wasn't worth worrying my little curly locks over. I was way to busy chasing rabbits, racing hedgehogs, playing with fleas in next doors barn (got in trouble for that!) and hanging in trees waiting for badgers to pop out of holes. Just your normal kid!  My world revolved around a picturesque thatch cottage roofed village of 120 people, I lived in a real life Thomas Kincade painting! Thoroughly enjoying my childhood in the English countryside: dancing pagan rituals around a maypole, entering wellie throwing contests, having sack races, playing tombola and knocking over coconuts at the local village fetes, you know all the usual things kids do?!??! And you wonder why the English are odd? By the time I was 16 and I had completed many masterpieces, which can be now purchased for an absolute fortune, just ask my mum, they are somewhere in the attic (you'll regret it someday; the antique road show will find them.......)

It was at this time my parents decide to move out of the Old Rectory (...great home, a doctor lived there before us, found loads of cool things digging in the garden!?!) and moved to a much bigger village in North Nottinghamshire, the home of Robin Hood and the evil Sheriff of Nottingham. I went to see his tree, how they knew it was the one Robin fired his last arrow into, I am not quite sure but it was very old, branches held up by posts, I was duly impressed. It was a bustling village, almost 300 people, quite a metropolis for me! The locals were a happy bunch too but that could have had something to do with the fact it also had THREE pubs! You can never have too many pubs in England, so I've been told, hmm.... We were immediately very popular new arrivals as we now owned one of them, which was a big relief, as you usually have to wait at least three generations before a village will usually acknowledge you exist.  It wasn't your typical pub as it was also a restaurant and a hotel but it was old, a Jacobean Manor house partly built in the 1100's and the main section built in the 1500's and it had a ghost who only appeared to visitors on heavy drinking holidays, which I thought was mighty suspicious. There were fireplaces big enough to roast a pig and the walls were 3ft thick. The original stocks for bad servants were still in the gardens, which my younger brother found rather disturbing (10 years younger than me and still quite capable of getting into plenty of trouble!!?! )....but the bayonets and sabers, we found in the attic were very exciting...as I said lots of trouble! I do recall myself getting into a bit of bother to put it mildly, when I knocked the back of a cupboard out looking for secret passageways...to Narnia? One interesting fact, probably the best one in this news letter is that this charming little village named Clayworth is actually situated only a few miles away from the village of Scrooby. I knew all you Americans would recognize that one!?!! Scrooby was the place where the pilgrims who set sail on the Mayflower originally set off from. I was probably living near some of your relatives as I am sure they couldn't fit everyone on the ship. So for those of you who have managed to get this far - wasn't it worth while? And if you have any doubt that I am woffling a load of rubbish, coincidently the November issue of the Smithsonian Magazine actually talks about the early pilgrims and mentions Scrooby!!! I have connections in high places. Actually I will be featured along with other nationally known artists such as Robert Bateman in the magazine in 2008, for conservation, art and canoeing remote wilderness rivers. I will definitely have to tell the unedited version of the trip in my newsletter! 

I left school at 18 and attempted Art College, at this point if I had any doubts or insecurities as to my passion in life, it was at this point it would have been snuffed out. In fact it would be quite a short life history wouldn't it? My professor told me as gently and subtly as possible (bearing in mind how sensitive we artists are) during his critique of my miniature wildlife paintings and I quote... “You will NEVER make a living painting this sort of stuff!” So at 19, I left college full of enthusiasm to start my career as a wildlife artist, with 52 pounds in my pocket, enough money for one month rent and no food, I moved into the big city, into the red light district to be precise. Well, that was a bit of a shocker for this country bumpkin, couldn't figure out why the rent was so cheap and why so many women wasted time sitting on doorsteps, while I worked my socks off painting..... Turned out they were working their socks off.  I did get a lot of work published on calendars and cards and a few one person shows, so it wasn't entirely a disaster I might add... should have sent a calendar to my professor. 

My parents decided city life wasn't the best place for their daughter and promptly bought me a ticket to America, so like your forefathers from Scrooby, you know that just doesn't have the same ring to it as Plymouth, I set sail to a new world, although I got there a bit quicker. I do recall quite vividly arriving in LA, I watched in dumb amazement as a car drove into a fire hydrant, to which my host nonchalantly said, “idiot, probably on drugs!”, now to give you some idea of my knowledge of drugs, a guy later offered me some 'coke' in a bar to which I replied “no thank you, I'm not thirsty!?” ....Sheltered, way too sheltered a childhood! It’s lucky I didn't mention it to my parents at the time; I'd be living in Iceland now! Well, in the next installment you'll learn how I moved out of Newport Beach and became a true starving artist living in an attic (I read the career manual well), how my cats saved me from burning to a crisp, how one print turned my whole life around and the start of numerous animal adventures...my favorite part!

-Lindsey