HeyJaredThe Line
Writing on lines and finding my way through a wood engraver's studio.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 4
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- Sep 20, 2026
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- Aug 2, 2026
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Window ledge talismans (opens the original)
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This is a post about lines.I thought you might like to see some of the objects from the window ledge above Simon’s wood engraving desk. One wooden bear, one folksy statue and one Ganesha.I wrote about this in ‘Whose life is this anyway?’, if you would like to know more.In three week’s, the studio needs to be empty and I am hearing the clappers. (See <a href="https://emilybrett.substack.com/p/simon-bretts-studi
Studio light, September (opens the original)
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Hello. This post is about lines.Juliet’s garden yesterday. All those lines, none straight. Was the longest that ray from sun to ground?Six weeks lie between today and then, when the studio will be empty.I see all the lines Dad/Simon drew and engraved on the blocks my aunt, his sister, is now carefully wrapping at his old engraving desk. Lines fill the air like the softest feathers and I feel his presence.This weekend, three of us have been working in the studio while Juliet looks after Little E,
Clearing a lifetime (opens the original)
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Hello. This post is about lines. In our Norfolk holiday cottage, I wash-up and look out of the window at the sunny garden table, where my uncle blew out his 90th birthday cake candles last week. Out of the little radio above the sink, marks twenty years of Radio 4’s Last Word by exploring how our attitudes to death, dying, and the ways we memorialise the dead have changed.‘The enormous emotional challenge of clearing a lifetime’s worth of physical possessions when a loved one dies…’ he says, and
Whose life is this anyway? (opens the original)
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On the other side of the dark river are houseboats, and the reflections of their golden windows shimmer on the water. I am parked on the opposite bank, under the old yew trees, sitting in the driver’s seat with my notebook because I wanted to be alone and see the lights before going home.It was just another day in the dismantling of my father’s studio but nearly 17 months after his funeral, to the day, all his books had been sold under an auction hammer and I felt empty.The trees are still and t
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