There are a few lines to complete before I've finished this piece, and I'll also add the title, Burnt Norton.

I want the shadows to work somehow with the embroidery above, which means that this combination isn't finished yet. I've done what I can for now.  Louise will explain, but my family is feeling very sad right now. Somehow, I feel that the black and white of the embroidery and the acrylic represents day and night, life and death. And the poem conveys the concept of time itself, as our family prepares to celebrate her life and mourn her death. Thanks everyone.

Audio file, with visual if anyone wants to follow.

- .. -- . / .--. .-. . ... . -. - / .- -. -.. / - .. -- . / .--. .- ... - / .- .-. . / -... --- - .... / .--. . .-. .... .- .--. ... / .--. .-. . ... . -. - / .. -. / - .. -- . / ..-. ..- - ..- .-. . / .- -. -.. / - .. -- . / ..-. ..- - ..- .-. . / -.-. --- -. - .- .. -. . -.. / .. -. / - .. -- . / .--. .- ... -

I want to present these images one behind the other, not side by side,  but I have no means of swivelling the images. 

This is more like it, but my clothes line has only four lines :-( Hopefully it will show what I mean for presentation

​This catalogue from MoMA's 1970 exhibition,Photography into Sculpture, is the first example I have seen of an exhibition which explores photography and sculpture working together. My work this year focusses on   how the two can combine. My specific interest is in how, through photography, time can be visualised in a sculptural installation. I found this catalogue very interesting, as it describes photography as "flat work" and as such would not normally be considered sculptural.
​
"To stress this new dimensionality in no way diminishes the nature of the inherent photographic image. In fact, to appreciate these sculptural artifacts, one must recognize how distinctly the artist adheres to the underlying photo-optical basis of his work, and indeed how he exploits the properties unique to photography itself. The maker of a photograph takes subjects — things — as he finds them and, with the selectivity necessary to determine their significance, manipulates them into an expression of his sensibilities so that they may constitute a revelation. It is not what is nominally said that counts in a work of art, it is what the artist makes with such intensity of perception that it lives with an intrinsic truth of its own."
​Peter C. Bunnell, director of the exhibition and Curator of the Museum's Department of Photography (1970)

https://www.moma.org/momaorg/shared/pdfs/docs/press_archives/4438/releases/MOMA_1970_Jan-
June_0035_36.pdf
accessed February 2020​

After processing the first two sets of images, which really tested my photoshop skills, I then made a template on Adobe Illustrator, dragged the images into the template and hoped like mad. Each subject had to be on a transparent background. The files went to CQ Print to be printed onto transparent film so that the progression of the sun across our deck and a line of clouds would show through, rather than print onto paper which would obscure the layers below. It was a nervous wait overnight but it WORKED - yay! The transparent film requires careful handing, but it is quite tough. There are a few finger marks, and static attracts dust, so I might have to wear gloves to cut and layer them in future, but these photos show the first two. Up until now I didn't know if it was going to work. The idea is to show time through movement. I can now see that the clouds work better than the more structured shadows, but until I was able to put these two sets together I didn't know if it was going to work at all. The Adobe Illustrator did my head in, but by some fluke I must have done it correctly.  

The shadow images were taken one every 10 minutes. The clouds were moving really quickly, 2 minutes apart. There was some trial and error at the start but what works and what doesn't soon becomes obvious.

Artistotle identified four elements, earth, fire, water and air, as the basis of all matter. I am using these elements as the subjects for four series of photographs depicting time.
Birthdays - an annual event - are important celebrations in our small family. The birthday flag is raised a week before the day and is lowered a week after. Air - wind.

Thanks to  Jamie Hanton

So far, I have embroidered the first two lines of eight. Luckily white fabric and black thread provides my not so young eyes with enough contrast to see what I'm doing. I can now recognise most of the  commonly used Morse code letters, making the work easier and a little bit quicker, but it is still slow-time work. The slowness gives me time to focus on the words, and I find it quite meditative and calming, which I'm enjoying. 

Burnt Norton 
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
                                   But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
                                   Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
II
Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
                                                    Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.
III
Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
Wtih slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plentitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.
      Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Dessication of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movememnt; while the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.
IV
Time and the bell have buried the day,
the black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
Chill
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.
V
Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.
      The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always-
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.