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‘The yarn bomb is mini- activism, a way to tell our stories’

Katy: Being born in the 1970s, I remember when it was normal for butterflie­s to emerge as you walked through fields and for bugs to be splattered across your windscreen after a long drive. Now it isn’t. Everything we have here on Earth is so special and it’s a massive shame humans are destroying it.

When I moved to this area, I joined a few people doing beach cleans on their own, but they eventually dwindled. Ecodewi got it all going again. We never know if one person or 28 will turn up. The volunteers vary from people who have retired and teenagers doing their Duke of Edinburgh award to families with small children. We even get holiday makers wanting to give something back to the community.

People think beach litter is always going to be crisp packets and lolly sticks. I keep finding sex toys. We get the odd hypodermic needle, too. Mostly, the litter is from shipping and commercial fishing. Bits of net, lengths of wire, broken lobster pots. Four times a year on one of the beaches we record every single thing we collect and give the data to the Marine Conservati­on Society. They analyse it and use it to campaign for change. The ban on plastic drinking straws and charging for carrier bags was down to them.

I can’t go to a beach without picking up rubbish. I’ll notice one piece, then an hour later I’m still doing it. I’ve always been involved in things I feel are worthwhile. It’s the way I go through my life.

‘There is power in your own voice’ Sicgmone Kludje and Vea Koranteng, Black Girl Knit Club Yarn Bomb

Sicgmone: I learned to knit during my first year of studying textiles at university. There were very few Black students on the course and as a British-born Ghanaian it was important to bring my heritage into the designs and to research the experience of other Black female creatives. Now, I’m a textiles lecturer and a knitwear designer. When I taught Vea how to knit, we thought it would be interestin­g to create a space for crafters that look like us. Everything started from there.

For Braided Traditions, our yarn bomb installati­on in the Pavilion at Stratford Cross, we brainstorm­ed ideas around the

theme of Black hair. Braiding and plaiting is the same as knitting and weaving, in a way. They’re skills normally passed down from grandmothe­r to mother, to child. From my mum braiding my hair, I learned at a young age that there’s a spiritual connection. You don’t let just anyone touch it. We gave the knitters full autonomy to tell their stories through their designs. One was based on a knit from Sierra Leonean culture, one looked at the experience of being mixed race, one used synthetic hair to reference their Barbie doll.

We hadn’t done a yarn bomb or anything this large scale before.

I panicked about whether we had enough. On the day it was lovely because our friends and family helped us fit everything, and it opened up a whole dialogue with passersby from all races and background­s sharing their own knitting stories. For me, beyond making the pieces, the project was about allowing these conversati­ons to happen. It’s shown me the power of having your own voice.

Vea: Our first Black Girl Knit Club meeting in 2019 was an introducti­on to knitting, which sold out. We could see the attendees enjoyed being around each other. There were women of all ages who felt comfortabl­e enough to talk about their day in a relaxed environmen­t. Five years later, we’ve run workshops all over London and have more than 800 subscriber­s to our newsletter.

I’ve worked in fashion and interior design, but I studied architectu­re technology at university and did work experience on a constructi­on site. For this yarn bomb, I suggested using upcycled scaffoldin­g netting. We bought loads of rolls in different bright colours and the volunteers helped us tear it into strips. Then, we taught them arm-knitting techniques to turn everything into braids, or anything else they wanted to create at that moment. It was a big community effort. There were many logistics involved in storing the materials, getting everything up, making sure the visuals were correct and checking it was safe and secure.

We grew up in east London and it was epic to see our work there. Giving something back to the community was touching. We feel the yarn bomb is miniactivi­sm, a way to tell our stories with one foot in the door of the art world. We have plans for another one next year. blackgirlk­nitclub.com

‘The alleyway garden is so peaceful’ Patrick Smikle, Smile with Smikle

When my mum was alive she loved gardening. I used to watch what she did and helped with her roses and plum trees. It was inspiring to watch what we’d planted grow. Very peaceful. I continued to help her when I moved out and I started to garden in my own backyard, too, but the alleyway behind the row of houses in my street was a complete mess – a dumping ground for bottles and other rubbish, tyres, all sorts of dangerous things. One neighbour had someone who was trying to get away from the police drive a car into their wall. You’d leave your wheelie bins there, but never go near it otherwise.

In 2009, the council put gates on the entrances to the alleyway, so it was only accessible to the residents. That was my opportunit­y to brighten it up. I had this vision of filling it with different flowers and fruit trees. The neighbours didn’t mind, but weren’t that interested in helping, so it was my own blank canvas. First, I just planted outside my own back gate, then I started growing next to the others, covering up the bins so they wouldn’t be seen from the kitchen window. I searched “what can you do with a tyre?” on the internet, which gave me the idea of painting them in bright colours, hanging them on the brick wall and adding flowers on the inside. To make the space more inviting I put a table and chairs out, and for privacy I hung shower curtains with a floral pattern on either end of the alleyway. The planters are on castors, so you can move them if somebody needs the space. Anything I could find, I’d reuse. Sometimes

I lacked confidence, but everyone is very encouragin­g.

Once everything started to grow, people’s attitude changed. Everyone loves and respects the space now that it looks nice. They stopped dropping rubbish and a couple of houses gave me money to buy flowers, so I’d plant them outside their back gate. Landlords and estate agents would use it as a selling point and a local jazz singer even used it for a photo shoot. My wife likes it too, because I can be outside while she watches the cooking programmes she’s mad on. She does help, but I won’t allow her to cut things back because she’s too ruthless.

My grandchild­ren love going on egg hunts at Easter. We’re one of the stops on a walking tour and some people on that have started their own alleyway garden after seeing mine. One of the neighbours lost her husband and when she feels low,

‘The residents get to choose the paint – as long as it’s not grey’

she comes out to see the flowers. Another paints stones for the garden. Another is always taking pictures and thanking me for the hard work on Facebook. I’ve been a driver for the Royal Mail for 44 years and will retire in November, so I’ll have more time for the alleyway. facebook.com/smilewiths­mikle

‘They’re joyous because they’re daft’ Tim Bushe, Hedgecutte­r Man

It was Philippa, my late wife, who started all this. She asked me to use the sculptural skills I learned at art college on the hedge in our front garden. I turned it into a steam train. Then our neighbour opposite fell over cutting his hedge, so I offered to help and turned his into a cat. Philippa died of breast cancer and during her illness she’d sit in the living room and look out the window at the train and the cat. Next there was a squirrel, then a woman asked if I could cut an enormous hedge in her road because drug dealers were using it to hide. Given the size of it, I decided elephants were appropriat­e. It was a lot of work. There are three adults, a baby and a pile of dung, which people find amusing.

When I got bored with animals, I thought I’d have a go at something figurative. I created a Henry Moore Reclining Nude for a woman in my choir group. I think the residents quite like the notoriety. Teenagers go by and giggle, of course. I’m a north London boy, born and bred, so I feel rooted here and only cut hedges in the locality. To justify the nonsense of doing it, I started raising money for charities. My younger sister has Down’s syndrome and I raised £10,000 for HFT, the charity that looks after her. Then I switched to environmen­tal causes, as I’m frightened for my children and grandchild­ren.

My neighbours don’t like it when the hedges get fluffy, so they need to be maintained three times a year. The more they grow, the harder it gets and you’re almost starting again. It’s good exercise, although it takes longer each time now, because people come up and talk to me. I have to be careful, too, because my back gets sore. Six years ago I crushed my spine in several places, broke some ribs and damaged my lungs in a motorbike accident. I had to take a break for a while. Then, I was cutting hedges with a body brace on, which caused a bit of a stir. I’m glad my neurosurge­on didn’t see me.

I couldn’t have imagined such a positive reaction. I was out trimming the elephants one day and this woman rocked up with a wheelie suitcase and seemed pleased to see me there. She’d flown in from Saudi Arabia, got off the plane at Heathrow and came straight across because she’d seen the hedges in a magazine. She asked for an illustrate­d map of the others, too. Apparently, there’s also a cycling club that does a “hedge tour”. They’re joyous because they’re so daft, and people quite like follies, don’t they? There’s plenty of things to be depressed about at the moment. Nobody’s depressed looking at the hedges.

‘It gives people a sense of pride’

I never considered myself an artist until I started decorating streets in Gloucester. When I was younger I was a dressage horse rider, then tried every job under the sun. I started a music festival, ran breakdanci­ng competitio­ns and was even a carer for a while – until I got fired for taking the residents on picnics. I’ve always had chutzpah and I’m a good organiser. There’s no stopping me when I start something.

My mum was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when she was only 54 and passed away 12 years later. With the money she left me, I bought student houses to renovate. The idea was to make student digs less rubbish and my rule is to only rent out places I would live in myself. Instead of painting everything magnolia, I used festival colours inside. When I bought my fourth house I told my husband I wanted to paint the outside of the whole row like a rainbow. I started knocking on doors, ringing landlords. They were like, what’s the catch? How much will it cost me? I told them it was free of charge as long as I chose the colour. Before I knew it, seven of the 12 houses were painted and it went viral.

Now, we’re on our seventh project, on High Street, Tredworth, with an amazing team of creatives and council funding. Every resident gets to choose what colour their house is painted – as long as it’s not grey. One chose yellow and green for the Jamaica flag. Kids tend to go for purple. Then there’s the murals, which are mostly by emerging female artists. We turned the Bangladesh­i-owned chicken shop building into 12 different canvases. The Caribbean takeaway features Jamaica’s national bird and flower. A great-granddaugh­ter of the owners of the old sweet shop from the early 1900s had a picture of its original sign, so we recreated it. We even ran a series of workshops where local children helped to design a cat-themed mural.

Doing something this ballsy isn’t going to be for everyone. I’ve been trolled on social media. Some ask what will happen when the paint starts fading. It couldn’t look any worse than before we started! There are no listed buildings, or conservati­on, on the streets we work on. They’re often a hotbed of antisocial behaviour, littering and fly tipping, which we help to sort out, too. People have a sense of pride in their surroundin­gs now. Mum, my inspiratio­n, would have been proud.

Tash Frootko, Rainbow Streets Project