I sat in the studio for about five hours today, stitching the hanging rings onto the wrapped twigs. I have done 740 out of the 760, but by 4:30 my eyes had gone blurry and my hands were sore, so I decided the last 20 could wait until tomorrow. The rest of the work is ready, other than some mirror plates and hanging devices. So I do feel prepared, and ahead of the game even. The remaining tasks won’t take long.
As the task of wrapping and stitching progressed, it felt like a marathon, I certainly hit The Wall with it, two or three times I think. But since discovering the statistics, I made a commitment to represent this obscene percentage, these 760 children, in this way. The act of wrapping becoming an act of care as I carried on. But because there are so many, it is also a task that has been tedious, physically and emotionally painful… and this I think, is all part of the work. It has seemed relentless. But the relentlessness of creating a work of art cannot be compared with the relentlessness of living in poverty, trying to bring up your children with little or no money, in times when the cost of living just gets higher, and the political situation seems to get more hopeless with each passing day.
As this pile of twigs has got bigger, I have started to question it. It is a pointless, futile gesture, by someone who is comfortable, middle class, warm, well fed… my privilege bites me at every turn. I have never been so aware of it. I’ve never felt so useless. I have a vote, and I write emails to my useless MP. I share things on social media and I sign petitions that get ignored.
I have 20 twigs to do tomorrow. I will do them. I can’t let the last 20 defeat me.
But I am wondering if it will even make the slightest difference to anyone at all. I am kidding myself if I ever thought it would. It has made a difference to me. It has exhausted me, and made me ache, and made me cry. But what use is that?
This is the first piece of work I have done that is directly, overtly political. It might be the last.
