A view of Patterdale.

After falling in love with the Lake District after my trek up Blencathra earlier in the year, we decided to come back and set up camp. Even though it had not been decided yet what peak we would trek up, I already had my mind set on one of the giants, Helvellyn, England’s third highest mountain.

Our little home in Side Farm, Patterdale on the edge of Ullswater. The camp brochure mentioned its gentle slopes. Well, I can’t say they’re that gentle…but still had a good night’s sleep. Staff were friendly and the camp site quiet at night with good facilities.

The view that greeted me when I looked out the tent in the morning. Had an energy rich breakfast of salami, bread, geobars, breakfast bars while admiring the landscape bathed in morning light. I needed the energy seeing that the evening before it was decided that Helvellyn would be our goal. I was thrilled and wary at the same time.

So, on the morning of August 22, 2010 at around 11 am, we set off from the Youth Hostel at Greenside towards our first target, Catstycam, and then my first climb up to Helvellyn.

View from the top of Catstycam. The cairn met us after a long steep trek upwards with some scrambling. We then turned and followed the path to Swirral Edge.

View of Red Tarn from the path towards Swirral Edge.

Swirral Edge coming into sight. A friend of mine, knowing my fear of heights, mentioned the obstacle of Swirral Edge and assured me that if I wanted to go an alternative route that would be fine. I was determined to take on some scrambling though and went ahead.

Swirral Edge. Nope, we didn’t take that path to the left. We followed the upper way, on the rocks’ edge towards the top. A very enjoyable time scrambling up and not as scary as I thought it would be.

I may be a slow climber / walker, but I get there at the end. The peak of Helvellyn and the amazing views from it.

On the top there is a plaque to Charles Gough, who fell from Helvellyn, and his faithful companion.

Beneath this spot were found in 1805
The remains of Charles Gough
Killed by a fall from the rocks
His dog was still guarding the skeleton.

After a much needed break at the shelter, munching on chocolate biscuits and crisps, we turned to descend from the peak.

And this is Striding Edge. Our way down. The perfect picture for my fear of heights. This gorgeous view set my feet to stone and brought tears to my eyes…not in a good way. This photo does not do justice to the thrill and fear I felt. Again the plan was not to take the side paths, but stay at the rocks’ edge at the top.

My legs were tired and my mind worked up the very real fear of death. This was a trek to take seriously. Some people (built like mountain goats) may find this an easy scramble. This to me was one of the big obstacles I wanted to overcome.

Not one of the best performance in my life. I wasn’t a pretty sight, trying not to shake as I had a death grip on my handholds while my feet attempted to plant themselves on rocky but stable steps, admonishing myself for my madness in incoherent ramblings…but I didn’t want to turn back. I kept to the top edge as much as I could, using side paths only when I found the top too technically difficult. Those side paths were for some reason even more terrifying.

I may have been frustrated and embarassed that I could not keep up with the rest of the group, but at the same time proud of myself that I dealt with it. I don’t know how long we were up there for, but suddenly the descent was done.

And we were back down on the edge of Red Tarn, viewing Helvellyn from below. From here we walked back to the car and drove to a cafe were I drowned myself in tea and cake.

Helvellyn may be not as high as some of the peaks in Switzerland, not as technical as some of the more dangerous peaks in the world, but the fact that the day before this climb, a boy fell of Swirral Edge and that more experienced fellwalkers than I have lost their lives on this trek…Helvellyn is not to be underestimated and should be shown respect.

Thankfully there is the Patterdale Mountain Rescue team, a voluntary search and rescue team who are on call 24 hrs a day, every day of the year. They are volunteers with equipment, paid for by donations, who set out to save lives.  When you’re in trouble in this landscape, where normal emergency services struggle to get to you, you can not value enough the work these people do. I think they’re great and hope to never need their help.

Wainwright writes of Helvellyn, Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells – Book 1:

Legend and poetry, a lovely name and a lofty altitude combine to encompass Helvellyn in an aura of romance;…There is some quality about Helvellyn which endears it in the memory of most people who have stood on its breezy top; although it can be a grim place indeed on a wild night, it is, as a rule, a very friendly giant. If it did not inspire affection would its devotees return to it so often?

This is definitely not my last trek on Helvellyn. I won’t get over my fear of heights in a day, it’s not something that will go away so easily. But I will not let fear define my limits. I hope that the next time I take on Striding Edge, I will be even a little bit more confident. That’s a win for me.

Started off at Ye Olde Naked Man Cafe. Tea and cake  while plotting our route.

Snapshots from a walk around Settle on August 14, 2010 :)

Expensive cocktails, a few snooty customers, but amazing views.

I also like how the venue doesn’t get too crowded either.

Mr H and I just spent the night by a big window watching the trains go by. We pretended that it was toy trainset and we had a button on the window, which would make the trains depart from the station.

“Choo-choo!”

When I first attempted to get a table at Jamie Oliver’s new restaurant in Leeds, the queue to wait at the bar first (and if lucky, the restaurant next) went around the block. And it was raining.

No matter how good the food is it is never worth that type of waiting in my opinion. I left to enjoy the meaty delights of Blackhouse. So, still with a starry-eyed view behind pink tinted glasses of Jamie’s Italian, I attempted to get a table once more. This time during the World Cup on the night England went against Algeria. No queue, we walked straight in and were quickly shown a table.

My first impression of the atmosphere: cramped.  Not long after I sat down I began to feel claustrophobic. This wasn’t helped by the feeling that I was back in my old high school canteen. The tables were small and clustered together. I felt like I was being rude by not having conversation with the diners at the table next to me.

The service was friendly, but slightly haphazard.

But I think the main disappointment was the food. Salami in truffle oil was nice…nothing special. Our other starter, calamari, was tasty, but left you wanting a bigger portion. It was a sad battered squid dwarfed by a large bowl of tartar. Poor lonely thing. Because my main course of pasta was a bit bland, I wasn’t too disappointed that the portion wasn’t great either. The only saviour of the meal was the rasberry and chocolate brownie. Unlike its predecessors it came in a more generous portion and was divine.

Unfortunately the dining experience left me totally unimpressed. I went home and picked up my barely used Jamie Oliver cookbooks from my bookshelf and sighed. They were a Christmas gift to my mother. Maybe there was a reason she gave them back to me.

Artist: Tanja Lichtensteiger
Dimensions: 36″ x 24″
Date: 03/2010
Media: Acrylic
Support: Canvas, white painted sides.

This must be the third or fourth cockfight painting I have done in my life. I do not encourage bloodsports, but it’s not something that I make an effort to deter. Growing up in the Philippines, it was very much part of the culture, especially in the provinces, where I grew up in.

The colourful feathers flying with the powerful movement of wings. The posturising of each bird, ruffling of their feathers. A ground littered with streaks of blues, blacks and blood.

Even from a young age, I thought it always symbolised something more. More than just birds. More than just a fight. It was almost carnal. Maybe an honesty for a need, which civilised society dictates against.

This is a subject that I believe I may explore for the rest of my life.

Sometimes you just need a week off to sort out all the mocking loose ends, which happily taunt you when you’ve just finished work. Be it the To-Do list stuck on your fridge or the pile of admin papers, awaiting your signature.

For my week off in Easter I was able to…

• Drop off two paintings at a gallery
• Redesign my artist website
• Finish two more paintings
• Enjoy quality time with friends
• Figure out my ‘what’s next’ plan…kind of.

At the moment there is so many things up in the air, I am unable to nail anything down until later in the year or maybe even next year. Questions arise such as, are we still going to be in the UK in two years? Are we still going to be in Europe in two years?

Good thing for artists, we can take our work with us.

Artist: Tanja Lichtensteiger
Series: Building God
Dimensions: 20″ x 16″
Date: 02/2010
Media: Acrylic
Support: Canvas, white painted sides.
Signed on front, signed / titled on the back.

Update: Some of my best works happen by accident in a spanse of a few minutes. After finishing a painting for the Photobooth Rejects series, I had some paint leftover in a palette; a little puddle of blue and red. I hate to waste paint, such loss of potential. So I picked up a brush and decided to use them for at least basic outline strokes that I could then paint over later. Safe to say, I got a bit carried away. Thirty minutes later…

Artist: Tanja Lichtensteiger
Series: Photobooth Rejects (Working Title)
Dimensions: 20″ x 16″
Date: 02/2010
Media: Acrylic
Support: Canvas, white painted sides.
Signed on front, signed / titled on the back.

Happy April Fools!

Artist: Tanja Lichtensteiger
Series: Photobooth Rejects (Working Title)
Dimensions: 20″ x 16″
Date: 02/2010
Media: Acrylic
Support: Canvas, white painted sides.
Signed on front, signed / titled on the back.

Art to me has always been personal. I don’t make my art fit anyone else’s expectations, but my own.

Just because I can paint pretty things, doesn’t mean I should. I apologise if I prefer Francis Bacon over Claude Monet  (don’t get me wrong, I adore his paintings…just not as much as the former).

People describe my work as intense, striking, subtley grotesque, sinister and even scary. I don’t argue with them. These words tell me that the art made the viewer feel.

Art that doesn’t, is simply wasted paint on a surface.

Superficial.