Ingrid Squirrell. It is a rather remarkable name. But then again, Ingrid Squirrell is a rather remarkable woman.
‘Squirrell must be an old East Anglian name,’ Ingrid chuckles. ‘One of Ron’s family was a harbour master somewhere on the Suffolk coast.’
We are lunching together in a creperie overlooking the medieval heart of Tulle, the préfecture of Corrèze, where Ingrid and her husband have lived happily, if eventfully, for the last four years. ‘We met in a pub. I was still at school in Upminster and Ron had just got back from a trip to Iran – in a bubble car! He walked in, looking bronzed and handsome – and that was it! We got married the next year. The day after I left school.’
Ingrid may be retired now and ‘of a certain age’, but she’s retained a girlish, almost skittish, quality that informs her work as a ceramicist and sculptor; the asymmetric bowls and precarious jugs and quirky animals and voluptuous female forms are a realisation of the artistic dream that took the couple to France.
If her works demonstrate an exceptional late-flowering talent, they also testify to her determination to carry on in the face of life’s setbacks. Her dream has been compromised by Ron’s increasing invalidity and the concomitant demands on her time and energy.
Her husband’s health, though, was actually a component of the dream. Ingrid explains. ‘We were living in a small terraced house in Lewes with a ridiculous back garden – 70ft long and 11ft wide! Ironically, I was working part time for Crossroads, an organisation that helps carers. I’d started a ceramics course in Eastbourne, which was really good for me because it got me going artistically. But then Ron had his first stroke.’
So wasn’t it a trifle perverse to move away from family and friends? ‘Well, Ron had recovered enough to be part of the decision. We had lots of discussions about it together and with Ben and Jonathon [their grown-up sons] and I suppose we thought it might stimulate Ron. He was very happy about the move.’
How did it all come about then? Ingrid smiles sheepishly. ‘I couldn’t sleep one night and I had a look on the internet for places in France. And the first house I looked at just seemed fabulous. It had so much space and a garage and a barn and I could imagine myself working there. And we came and looked and bought it!’ she giggles.
Just like that? Spur-of-the-moment? ‘Not entirely. I’d rented some studio space in Ditchling, but my work was getting bigger and there wasn’t enough space at home, so we were looking for somewhere in the UK, but everything was so expensive. And I’d studied German and French at university, so…’
Creating art
So they moved to France in 2004 – to a big seventeenth-century stone farmhouse at the edge of a hamlet tucked among the wooded hills between Tulle and Argentat-sur-Dordogne. With a garden this time that’s as wide as it’s long.
Did this dream of creating art in rural France have any deep roots? ‘Well yes and no,’ she equivocates. ‘The French part of it… I suppose I’ve always loved mountains and trees and lakes.’ (Which would describe Corrèze if you substitute ‘hills’ for ‘mountains’.) ‘And I’ve always wanted to use my language skills. I suppose, too, I’ve never been afraid of trying somewhere different. We actually emigrated for three years. One of those £10 assisted passages to Australia. Ben was three months old. When we came back, Jonathon was just learning to walk.’ She laughs, no doubt to recall the fun of surveying two small boys on an ocean-going steamer.
‘We moved to Devon, where eventually I got a job with South West Arts as a literature officer. We lived near Exeter for 27 years before moving to Lewes, so yes – we’re comfortable with the countryside.’
What about the roots of her art? ‘My art,’ she snorts dismissively. ‘Well. Pottery; sculpture: it’s a very tactile medium. I suppose I like the touch aspect. As a child, I used to play with plasticine for hours on end. I had a whole world of little people and figures.’ So nothing much has changed? ‘No. I suppose I’ve created another alternative world. My studio is somewhere to escape to and take refuge.’
After lunch, I have a private view of her work in the studio she created underneath their spacious open-plan living area. Her work is deliciously weird and quirky and ‘off-centre’. ‘It’s an expression of my personality,’ she smiles. ‘I was a bookish child. In fact, a lot of my life has revolved around books and illustrations and stories. The figures I create are part of some kind of narrative in my head. I can’t take it totally seriously,’ she giggles. ‘Look at these snails: they’re totally ridiculous!’
What do all the buxom ladies designed to hold candles signify? ‘My mother was Swedish and she used to love pottery. She would tell me about the festivals and traditions, and a lot of it has to do with candles. The Festival of Santa Lucia, for example, on 13 December: little girls dress up with candles in their hair. But also, I love creating things that are both sculptural and functional. You could say that my bowls and jugs are functional in spite of themselves. Some things don’t stand up properly!’ And she laughs that charming self-effacing laugh of hers.
In the garden that camouflages some of her larger female forms, I ask how Ingrid envisaged their new life in France. ‘Mmm. I suppose I wanted to sculpt and pot and sell some work – and garden. And enjoy an active retirement. I thought I could use my language skills and teach English. And I wanted all this to stimulate Ron. I hoped he might even learn to speak French.’
Good friends
The wheelchair ramps everywhere and all the support rails inside the house are a legacy of Ron’s subsequent severe stroke that left him incapable of doing anything for himself. So Ingrid is now maybe three parts carer to one part artist.
‘It’s difficult to marry all the demands of running a house and garden and looking after Ron. He would have chopped the logs and mown the lawn and unblocked the drains and all that kind of stuff. In a way, though, it’s helped us be accepted in the community – which was always part of my dream. It’s not full of Brits here and it takes time to be accepted. But people pass by and they wave to Ron sitting on the balcony in his wheelchair and they come and see the pottery, and all that helps. We’ve made some good French friends here, and I feel very accepted and supported. Doctors and neighbours have helped me take advantage of the French system to find some practical help with Ron. I have an aide ménagère who comes a few hours a week. It’s not as much as I need, but I probably get more help here than I would in England.’
The trouble is Ingrid isn’t getting any younger. She’s determined to carry on as long as she can, but the demands of her dual role are draining. ‘I concentrate on keeping my work going instead of all that marketing stuff that I should be doing. I want to do more of the big pieces. I love all the technical challenges involved. I’m still exploring the medium all the time.’ She’s had some exhibitions and is trying to set up a group of local potters, and every summer she opens her studio to visitors as part of the department’s now annual ‘art trail’. Gradually she’s getting known and building a reputation. Her dream now is to work on a commission basis, populating gardens with her singular figures.
In the light of events, does she ever regret the move? ‘Maybe we could have found somewhere in the UK. It might have been easier, but maybe there would have been a different set of difficulties. I go to London from time to time to see my family and it’s such a culture shock now. I get back here after a few days away and I think, “Ah, how wonderful”. So the experience has been largely positive. The biggest negative is what happened to Ron. But it would have happened anywhere. The fact that I’ve got somewhere inspiring to work has made it easier to cope. I don’t have to think of myself as just a carer.’
Ingrid Squirrell’s knack of smiling in the face of adversity keeps her focused on a dream that has already borne considerable fruit. Her very British, very ironic sense of humour probably puzzles and charms her new French friends – like her art. ‘People say “your stuff makes me smile”,’ she reveals ingenuously. ‘I don’t know why.’
I couldn’t imagine.
For a more detailed look at Ingrid’s work, visit her website: www.ingrid.uk.net