PhD Change in Direction

I visited the shipyard yesterday, and it was incredibly eye-opening. David’s passion for tacit knowledge, gendered spaces, and vulnerable pedagogies was inspiring.

The visit prompted me to reflect on the core reason behind my research. Although I’ve worked in apprentice-like settings—such as at the framers —I realised I lack direct experience with formal apprenticeships.

My interest lies more in the fluid, project-driven skill acquisition I experienced with John in the woodwork studio, where I learned fine woodworking skills shaped by my artistic projects. I also have experience of working with Technitions in three different environments:

2022: Tim Ralston (PADA Studios) - Technician at an Artist Residency (as well as an artist in his own right) - Lisbon, Portugal
2023: John - Technician at Falmouth University (as well as a carpenter in his own right) - Falmouth, UK
2024: France (Sirname Unknown) - Underland Studio Cartaker - Falmouth UK

I would like to shift my PhD focus towards exploring the relationship between student and technician.

Experience Working with Technicians:

**Tim Ralston, Technician, Curator, Artist**

- Tim Ralston (PADA Studios): was my first experience working with a technician to create a body of work at an artist residency in Portugal.

Body of work created at PADA

During my time at PADA, Tim helped me build small tables, introduced me to pyrography, taught me various sanding methods, and inspired me to work with salvaged wood. He provided old tabletops and allowed me to use table legs he had gathered over time, as you can see in images 1 and 6 of the mini furniture.

Although I didn't have a close relationship with Tim, I recognise that his influence significantly shifted my style and interests. As a more established curator and artist, Tim intimidated me, which may have created a barrier to forming a friendship. Unlike my connections with John and France in Falmouth, I felt more self-conscious and less playful around him.

There was always a sense that he had more important things to do—bigger fish to fry—which made me hesitant to take up too much of his time, even if he was willing to help.

During my three-month residency at PADA, I spent most days in the studio where the technical facilities were located. Tim had his studio upstairs, but I could call him down whenever I needed assistance.

Jon Humphris (MA, Falmouth University): Jon was instrumental in teaching me to use various tools and machinery, including chisels, axes, and planes. He inspired me to primarily work with handheld tools, grounding my practice in a slower, more traditional approach. I spent at least four days a week in the woodwork studio, typically from 9 AM to 4 PM, for about four to five months.

My body of work was created at Falmouth.

I wrote my final dissertation on the concept of woodwork as a collaboration, focusing on the relationship between the material (wood), the tools, and myself. I viewed tools as a language through which I could communicate with the wood. John introduced me to various tools, and we conducted experiments in the studio, which I documented. These experiments became the foundation for my dissertation.

During this process, I felt that I learned so much from him. I always saw him as a stoic and consistent person. I loved hearing his stories about the rock and roll days of the hippie era, his experiences working with prisoners, and the evolution of his career at Falmouth.

Most of the time, we would listen to his CD player and quietly focus on our individual projects. Sharing music became a significant part of our relationship. In fact, when I left, I gave John a present to thank him for all his help: a Graham Nash CD.

I know John cared a lot about what I was creating, but there was no pressure associated with it. I didn’t feel as though it needed to be cutting-edge or intellectual. Perhaps the absence of that pressure allowed for a casual, playful learning environment to form.

I felt so liberated at the end of my MA. I came away thinking, “Art is just art. It’s not a big deal, Kimi; you just do it because you love it.”

France (last name unknown) (Chintz, Underland Studio, Falmouth): France and I have become good friends in the studio. He helped me build frames for my recent exhibition, and in return, I assist him with various tasks around the studio, such as clearing brambles in an area they are reclaiming.

As the days drift by, we often chat about his life in South Africa, living on a boat, and share plenty of banter. We also discuss my life—my sisters, things that are bothering me, and my current interests. Like with John, sharing music has become a strong foundation of our friendship, especially our mutual love for Rodriguez.

This casual, playful relationship, rooted in our love for craft and building things, greatly enhances my creative practice and a positive attitude to my work.

I wrote a story about the wisdom I gained from France, which you can read below.

Life Doesn’t Always Go the Way You Want It To

By Kimi Zoet

I work in a courtyard owned by two brothers named Keeran and Dunkin. There’s a bar, an artist's studio, a fancy restaurant, and a bunch of picnic tables in the middle that tie us all

together.

France is the caretaker. He’s a South African guy, relatively short and athletic, with a beard, yellow teeth, and long shaggy hair. He always wears shorts; his shins are perpetually cut up

by brambles, and he sports big round blue women’s 80s sunglasses. France rides a mountain bike to work, and nine times out of ten, there’s a cigarette pursed between his lips.

France is relaxed. He’s like a 14-year-old skater boy trapped in a 60-year-old’s body. At the moment, he’s painting the bar door that leads out to the smoking area. I often borrow tools

from France, so I wandered up the stone steps to find him because I needed to borrow a clamp to glue some wood to the back of a canvas.

I could hear him humming. “France,” I called up before stumbling in.

“It’s Kimi, my girl!”

“Hello.” I stood in the doorway.

“Ello,” he responded, picking up his beer, which he had balanced on a stool next to his

painting, and took a sip. “Good afternoon!”

I laughed to myself and gave him a funny look.

“Wait, what time is it?” He tapped on his phone. “Ah, shit,” he corrected himself, also

laughing. “It’s 11:00. Well, good morning.” He wiped the froth from his overgrown beard and

raised his glass. “What do you want now, eh?” he said in a jokey tone.

“I was just wondering if I could borrow a few clamps,” I said in an Irish accent, for no reason

other than when I feel awkward borrowing things, I put on strange voices. France was used to

my quirks, so he didn’t bat an eyelid. “Of course, my girl!” He rummaged through his moth-

eaten bag, found one, and handed it to me. “Thank you!”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Nope, I think that’s everything.”

“Okiii,” he responded.

“Cool, I’ll see you in a bit!” I wandered back out from the bar.

“Ah, shit, actually, Kimi, I forgot to show you!” I heard him from the other room, getting up

and bounding toward me. “Do you have a second?”It’s funny. I look up to France a lot—he lives alone on a boat and moves to a new country

every few years. His nonchalant gestures, lone-wolf attitude, and the childlike spirit. Our

friendship, like most of his relationships I’ve observed, is light-hearted and jokey, but I

sometimes wonder if he was alright. What was the stain on his heart that drives his addiction.

“Yep,” I responded. “What’s up?”

“Look, look, look, look.” He walked ahead of me enthusiastically, wiping the dirt from his

knees and leading me to a door behind the bar.

The bar is positioned on a hill, so behind the bar, the land is at the same height as the roof, if

that makes sense. He opened the wooden door, and we walked through. Suddenly, my dog

Bertie ran through rudely.

“Be careful, Bertie,” France said. “And you too,” he continued. “These steps are old, ah.” I

looked down at the old, crumbling stone steps.

I nodded and picked Bertie up, worried that he might slip and fall. As we walked up the steps,

an overgrown garden began to reveal itself.

“Ahh, look, Kimi, it’s a secret garden! A fucking garden! I’m gonna clear it all back so that you

can put two tables up here.”

There were two sets of stairs. France helped me up the second.

“Be careful up here.”

“This is awesome, France!”

“Yeah, I mean, I was just cleaning out the gutter and then thought, wow! This place could be

seriously cool!”

“Do Keeran and Dunkin know about it?” I asked.

“No, not yet!” He rubbed his old, leathery hands together. “Ahhh, I’m so excited to show

them! But can you see, though?” He gestured out to sea. “You have the view over the

harbor,” he pointed out, “and you’re gonna get the sunset!”

“I mean, that’s awesome.”

“But do you want to know the best part?” he continued.

“Go on then,” I replied, feeding off his enthusiasm.We walked back down the first set of stone steps, France looking back to make sure I

wouldn’t fall. “Look in here.” We peered into a little cove, and inside was a small nest with

three eggs.

“Look how tiny-tiny,” France continued.

“Oh my god, that’s so cute.”

“It’s a robin’s nest,” he said. “The mum is just over there. She hangs out with me during the

day.”

I stuck my head into the little cove. “I can’t believe that those little eggs will turn into birds.

Mental.”

France was smiling. “I sent a picture to my son, actually.”

I was a little shocked. I had known France for six months now, hung out with him day in and

day out, and he hadn’t mentioned that he had a son.

“France! What the hell, you have a son! How did I not know this?”

“Ah, yeah,” he looked a little embarrassed. “But he still lives in South Africa.”

“Ah, that must be hard, living so far from him.”

“Ah, yeah,” he responded, clearly trying to move the conversation past my probing question.

“It’s his birthday today!” he said, shifting the tone.

“Ah, congratulations!”

“Congratulations? It’s not my birthday,” he responded, confused.

“It’s a Dutch thing,” I explained (I am Dutch). “In Holland, you congratulate people on their

friends' or family’s birthdays.”

“Ah, sweet. Yeah, we don’t do that so much in South Africa.” He was nodding to himself,

thinking. “Shall I show you a video of him?”

“Sure.”

He got out his cracked phone screen and fumbled around for the video. “My sister made it. She looks after him out there.”

He played the video. “He turned thirteen today!” he said as the images flicked past with elevator music in the background. One of the I phone automated slideshows. “Look at him!What a dude!” He pointed to his phone. There was a picture of his son holding a big fish, another with a cake, and one of him as a baby with France.

I felt France’s mood shift. That bouncy energy he so desperately tried to maintain slowly seeped away, like a small leak in a pipe.

“Ah, man, I wish I was there with him,” he said, looking up at me. He looked back down to his

phone. “I wish I was there with him through it all. My little dude.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, France,” I responded, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s alright,” he said. “It’s just life, I guess.” Looking up at me, he added, “life can be a

beautiful thing,” he gestured towards the baby eggs. “but… life,” he lifted his shoulders up

shrugging, “it can’t always go your way.”

In summary, I want to move away from formal apprenticeships and explore how technicians' informal mentorship, skill-sharing, and friendships influence artistic development. Through autoethnographic research, I aim to show that these more casual learning environments provide not only knowledge but also wisdom.

Moreover, I’ve observed a gap between the value technicians offer and their formal job descriptions at University. For instance, John has been one of my most important teachers, yet his role isn’t fully recognised. I believe a policy shift is needed to acknowledge the crucial educational contributions technicians make.