Karen Guthrie, Summerhill, Hawkshead Hill, Ambleside, Cumbria, LA22 0PP Dear James, I am writing to give you some more information further to our phone call, and also enclosing some images. How we came to be here now... I (Karen) met Nina at Edinburgh College of Art in 1989, where we both studied printmaking. Her first reaction to me (apparently) was disbelief at the distinctly unsuitable platform sandals I wore for etching. I thought she looked like a Laura Ashley-clad farmer's daughter. We became friends anyway. In 1991 I moved to London to pursue my studies further, as did Nina one year later. We shared houses and flats in London. Then after a year in Rome on a scholarship, I returned to London, and Nina and I had our first art exhibition together - called "Somewhere Over the TV". The exhibition included (amongst other things) 200 real trees, several dozen Glade air fresheners, and a few tonnes of yellow gravel. In Spring 1996, Nina and I spent a month travelling round Scotland making a 'live' internet travelogue together. A friend recommended someone to stay with in Inverness. We turned up to his freezing cottage relatively unannounced. It was Adam, who had run away from London to work in the highlands at a gallery there. He cooked brilliantly and wore a lovely bespoke tweed suit. In November 1997, we attended a week-long workshop for artists working with new media (e.g computers and video) in Dartington, Devon. Amongst the other artists was Anna, whose work I knew through an 'art' pony race she organised. One of the workshop tutors was Simon, an artist based in Dorset. He was a vegan with an extremely dry sense of humour. We all got on well, kept in touch over email etc. In February 1999, Adam left Scotland to become the director of the Grizedale Society, a long established forest sculpture park in Cumbria. Its early success with artists like Andy Goldsworthy had faded, and there were a lot of frankly embarassing animal carvings covered in moss on the well- worn sculpture trails. Adam wanted the place to change direction, work with artists who had no burning desire to use wood, so he asked Nina to put together a project that would further this aim. She did, contacting me, Anna and Simon as the team, and getting funding from the Arts Council of England. December was set as when we would work in Cumbria together - exactly what we might do there was anyone's guess. What happened after we got here. All four of us are accommodated in a typical Lake District B & B at Hawkshead Hill - a pinky beige, flouncy-curtained, ensuite shower room, kind of place more suited to holidaying Manchunian bank managers than artists. Rather than install ourselves in the Grizedale Centre's studios amongst the visitors and park rangers, we made a studio in the B & B dining room among chandeliers and flowery swags. Computers, local newspapers, CDs, video cameras and countless bits of paper soon cover every surface. HQ is set up. We quickly decide to turn our backs on nature - too many artists here have ignored the people here in favour of trees. All of us are interested in 'local culture'- popular culture, not the Wordsworth or even the Beatrix Potter - but what goes on here every day: Chats about property prices, pubs, the tourist trade, hobbies, transport, second-hand shops, home-made cakes, local personalities. Particularly local personalities. We become fascinated by them - who they are, what they do, what they think of themselves. We find some new ones of our own, such as Ian of Roa Island - an elusive operatic singer who tours the world, and comes to our attention via an intriguing gate house he is selling on the Island. Anna recieves enigmatic phone calls from airports and stations in Europe as we try to obtain keys to view the gate house. Limo Day Out The neighbour himself (Bob Turner) fills Ian's vacant shoes as the local personalities are treated by us to a short limousine ride as part of what I suppose could be called a performance. We hire it for a day from Penrith. The driver (Steven) has a day job is in photocopiers; he had the stretch limo made especially in the States. The price includes chocolates, champagne and petrol. We set off early, picking up each of our five local personalities from their homes and interviewing them on video about their lives. We have an estate agent, a part-time Santa, a rally driver, Grizedale's director Adam, as well as Bob, standing in for Ian. The day has many highlights - one in particular is when we swing by a local primary school with Santa poking out of the limo's sun-roof. The kids go wild - we pause for a few minutes before departing as mysteriously as we arrived. We enjoy imagining the kids telling their incredulous parents over tea about the spontaneous visit. Bob obligingly opens up Ian Honeyman's gate house for us. Ian's possessions litter the decrepit building. As we leave Roa Island a rainbow appears. A perfect day to be out in a limo. The Rally Driver Project One of the local personalities we treat to a limo ride is David, a local forester whose passion is rally car racing. We meet him through a forest ranger who has an unashamedly explicit crush on him. She tells us of his recent bad luck - how, despite pouring all his earnings and spare time into his Sierra Cosworth, it just hasn't gone well for him. We wonder if we can help. We eventually meet him, working deep in the forest on a dinosaur-like timber harvester. We interview him on film, deciding that what he needs is sponsors and publicity. He is amenable, modest, if slightly puzzled. We all enthusiastically sieze the chance to try to promote someone other than ourselves. Before we know it we have offered him the world. His next rally is immanent, and takes place on his home turf , Grizedale Forest . All is well with his engine, our hopes are high, and we splash out on some logo tabards to wear on the day, and a big banner to wave. We even buy champagne, and have a cake made depicting the Sierra. On rally morning it is sleeting heavily. We unfurl the banner with difficulty in the gusting wind, and make our way slowly to the start line. Other spectators remain warm in their four-wheel drives. We attract bemused stares, and, later, outright ridicule for our tabards, but remain proud. David is seeded 8th - we watch him set off, whooping and waving our banner, then make our way up a forest path triumphantly to the first pit stop. As we follow the twisting path, we pass makeshift shelters beneath which men in overalls move swiftly, spanner and jacks in hand. But we haven't passed David. We are all slightly worried, but we don't discuss this, instead assuming that we've misjudged things. Finally the pitstops trail off, becoming sparser. Confused, we pass a muddy layby and notice David's dad, pacing around disconsolately. It's all over, he tells us, it was over within 3 minutes. Skank in the turbo, couldn't have predicted it, a shattering disappointment. Fortunately we don't have the cake and bubbly with us. His mother offers us a burger, and we join David's entourage in circling the car which sits mutely like a dead animal on the tarpaulin. A few days later, rumours reach us that David is considering quitting. Nontheless we insist on meeting with him again, pitching ideas around as if we are in some wierd amateur advertising agency. We show him and his family the website we've made for him. They cheer up. Simon talks of big corporate sponsorship, sports psychology and the importance of image. Undeterred, we arrange ambitious photo shoots for him, finally erecting a billboard image of him in the forest for a Sunday Telegraph photographer. We plan our large-scale sponsor campaign for after the festive season - in the meantime we erect a rally grotto at the Grizedale Christmas Fair, where kids can sit in DavidŐs car and be photographed. We also hire a snow machine and some fancy dress costumes as we are roped into helping with the Christmas show. And that just about takes us up to today. Yours sincerely, Karen