I lived in London for seven years. I moved down there to study Fine Art, and went on to discover a passion for writing. By the end of my Masters, I found myself in a bit of a black hole. The recession was in full swing, the lease on my flat was up, and most of my friends had moved on to procreate, settle down or ‘find themselves’. There was no question – if I stayed in the capital, I would have to work day and night to pay the rent, and live with a bunch of strangers. It was “No deal, please, Noel” for me. I closed the box.
So here I am, at the start of a brand new year. And where is here? Sheffield. My home town. The last place on earth I thought I’d ever be. Not because it’s horrible, or bleak or anything. But because, well – when you leave home for good, you don’t much think of going back as moving forward, do you?
But, and here’s the irony of life, since coming back up north I’ve felt more like myself than I have in years. I’m not saying it’s all down to moving location, no one ever really finds themselves in India – they just go there because they know they’ve got to look somewhere, and they say a change is as good as a rest. Well, Sheffield HAS changed since I was last here – and despite all the familiarity, there’s so much I don’t recognise.
When I left Sheffield, I was a timid teenager with all the social graces of a startled rabbit. I endured an education in which learning was considered very uncool, and only lead me to bury my head in as many books as possible, thus earning the griping nick name “boffin head”. To me, Sheffield was a place where art meant the completion of a paint-by-numbers picture and a successful stint in the sandpit. No one gave the time of day to contemporary art in my life, it was almost a dirty word, relegated to the spitting red-faced bloke with the builder’s bum who might mention “modern art”, but only to mock it with common phrases such as “what a load of *&%$£!” Or “my dead grandmother could paint better than that.”
So when I left for London I was utterly shocked to discover that not only did people talk about art, they made it too. And leaving seemed, well – a ridiculous idea. And leaving for Sheffield? Why would I want to do that?
But it’s been a real eye-opener, coming ‘home’. Yes, I’ve had to suffer the social embarrassment of moving back in with my family in my late twenties, but in all honesty, it’s given me the freedom to jump off the racing rat-wheel and take a look around. And I am really starting to like what I see!
Only this morning I read an article on the guardian about the North’s rise in studios, artists, creative outlets and opportunities – and all this during the biggest political catastrophe since the nation mistook Mrs Thatcher for an actual woman. Great stuff! I’ve even interviewed a few bright young things of the art world myself this month, in preparation for a new article, and discovered a genuine support structure running through the city, encouraging artists to develop their work.
I’m pretty excited. This isn’t London – and yes, I do miss it – but it is starting to feel like a place in which my life can thrive, for however long I’m here. So – whilst I am here, I thought it might be a good idea to kick off some dialogue and share the scene.
It’s my ambition that this blog might eventually become a bit of a voice for critical integrity in Sheffield – there’s a lot going on in the city, but written commentary is still sparse. If I was going to dream, (and you’ve got to, haven’t you?) I’d say that this is a starting point for the Sheffield based art/writing publication I may eventually find the resources to run. . . nudge, nudge, hint, wink.
So come back soon and “read all about it”! This will be my Sheffield Review.
