Sally Madge: In Memoriam

It was our dear friend Sandra Johnston who was tasked with the difficult work of telling us that Sally had died on 11 November. When I first moved to Newcastle in August 2014, Sandra had already been here for a couple of years. She was travelling when I moved across, and put me in email contact with someone who had become a close friend and who was involved in organising a site-specific screening I'd find really interesting. Sally had me go round to her house and we chatted and got to know each other a little. I felt like I'd known her for ages, perhaps because we both felt affection for Sandra. 

Sally drove us out to Lindisfarne and we parked up, met the rest of the group attending the screening, and all walked across to Holy Island, carrying the kit and supplies. Those with the tech and equipment set up a screen, a generator, a laptop and a projector. A bright, long summer's day in the North, we chatting and picnicked and listened to a Northumbrian piper as we waited for dusk. Sally showed me her Shelter on the rocky beach and explained how it came about and the ways people found it and used it. Against a pink sunset, we started the film - Cul-de-sac (dir. Roman Polanski, 1966), which had been filmed there. I next saw Sally a couple of weeks later when I took her a disk of my photos.

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In March 2015, Sally participated in Drafting at Baltic39. Her ongoing piece throughout the public and private parts of the event called Landscope involved her using a lint roller to collect material traces, almost imprints, of the people and objects she encountered. I was one of those people. I remember her showing me the peeled rectangles of sticky lint paper, each arranged in a grid formation in a standing case and on the wall and finished with a dusting of fine French chalk to avoid anything not from that act of collection getting stuck to the paper. These trace portraits had subtle variations in colour depending on what people were wearing, and some were covered in dust picked up from the various mats around the building. When showing me these, Sally asked if I would consent to being part of her performance and I keenly aquiesced. I was wearing a dusky blue cardigan, a white shirt and black trousers. I remember feeling the gentle rolling down my back, legs, shoulders, arms and sides. We chatted more, as was part of the work of collecting traces of our personalities and presences, but I cannot recall what we said. I just remember feeling like I was in safe, caring hands and excited that Sally would want to make any kind of portrait of and with me. It occurs to me now that even our waste and debris was precious to her and worth collecting.

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I keep flashing back to the times when Sally insisted on giving me a lift home and I gave in and let her. Although I was 40 years her junior, during the past few years Sally was a source of quiet strength and was understanding of the difficulties I'd had. I felt safe with her and allowed her to perform these acts of care. One occasion was after Sandra's 50th birthday when she dropped us both home. It was a slushy, snowy night in December 2018. We'd had a blast out together with a lovely group of people, with Sally having made most of the arrangements for the surprise. She made sure we got home safe. Another time was after we'd been to a talk together at Newcastle University about the Merz Barn Wall the following February. I tried to hide it so I'm not sure if Sally perceived it or not, but I was feeling faint afterwards and relented to her insistance on a lift home.

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In January 2019, I was in the process of trying to be braver about asking people to guest on Audiovisual Cultures podcast. I felt very comfortable around Sally, and knew she was someone loads of people would benefit from hearing. Not only did she say yes, but she came up with a rather lovely idea. She asked if she could compose an essay reflecting on her arts practice throughout her life to read aloud. We recorded it together in her kitchen, surrounded by artefacts she'd found on beaches over the years and things she'd made from them. We then talked more about some of the ideas and concerns coming out of her work, largely around notions of value. We chatted on for quite a while, but in the end, Sally felt some of it was too personal and didn't want certain parts to be public. I appreciated her candor, and this early experience showed me that I wanted to work with rather than pressure people, and it assured me about what kind of podcaster and interviewer I wanted to be.

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I last saw Sally in July this year. Our friend Sandra was in lockdown back home in Northern Ireland and we were taking it in turns to check her house. We would leave each other wee things or signs that we'd been. When restrictions had eased and the numbers were looking more under control, we had a distanced cuppa and a natter in Sandra's back garden. Both worried but trying to keep our spirits up. She had just been to her allotment and brought me a bag of kale, potatoes and chard. Always sharing, always caring, always thinking about others. We were always meaning to spend more proper time together and life was always getting in the way. I remember telling her although it was hard, we all needed to stay away from her to keep her safe. But it wasn't enough, so ferocious is this virus. I can't help feeling that Sally deserved better, she deserved more time, and she most of all deserved a good and peaceful death surrounded by love. I can only hope she knew how much she meant to so many of us. We're a bit emptier without her here, but enriched from having had her in our lives. Much love to everyone who is missing her, particularly Tom, Sandra and Sally's family.

Sally's Lindisfarne Shelter, taken August 2014