Crow!

Dear Diary,

Have you seen the film Brazil? Can’t say I’m loving it, but we’ve been watching it over two days. Anyway, in between showings, I phoned Company House with some questions about setting myself up as a company, and suddenly I found myself in a scene from the film. It was bureacratic madness! Sheer madness! Sorry, I’ve never heard of a Social Enterprise. It’s forms 10 and 12. Oh no, those forms do not exist. But I have them here. Sorry, they do not exist. Please try and calm down, madam, I am trying to get to the bottom of this. There’s an SE form. Well, surely that’s it? Oh no, that’s a Societo Europea. I’ll pass you on to my colleague, Mark. He may know something about them. What are they you say? Social Enterprise! Mark knows. He tells me the forms I have been dropping marmalade on for the past two months are redundant, having been replaced (European Directive 0.6 subsection A, 2006) as from 1 October 2009, with the new EN01 (18 pages long), along with Articles of Association and Memorandum. What are they, I cry? They don’t seem to be on your website. Oh no! says he. You will need to get them from a solicitor. But don’t send them in. Just keep them for your records. That sounds expensive and unnecessary, say I. What are they? A Memorandum is a nice short reminder on a post-it, isn’t it? Oh no, says he. It is a very expensive legal document. Oh, says I. Am I still setting up a Social Enterprise? i don’t know, says he, is it a company with limited guarantee. How the hell should I know, I say with my hand over the mouthpiece, I’M AN ARTIST AND I’M REALLY TRYING TO BE BUSINESS-LIKE. I was recommended to set up a Social Enterprise, says I. Oh, he says, company with limited guarantee you want, then. And I want to cry.

I’m meeting the potential subscribers (yes, dear Diary, I need two of them and I love you for not asking me what they have to do) in the pub tonight. I know they will ask me probing questions. Can’t they just sign the box? I’ve just read something about filing returns. And quorums. And underwriting debt. Will that worry them?

Why am I doing this? I forget. It’s like writing a blog. Someone recommends it is good for establishing a network, for increasing visibility, viability, all those great dynamic, visionary words. So you forge ahead with enthusiasm and a vision of the future. Then the solitary nature of the activity, the monotony, the futility, the words without pictures – they hit you like a sledgehammer, and you write all about it, and that is your last blog entry. Ever. And with your dynamic, thrusting arts business, you file the reams of paper you’ve printed off in an efficient-looking folder headed ‘SETTING UP MY COMPANY’. And off you go to drink a cuppa, eat a cream cake, and watch an episode of Neighbours. Ah yes!

Wey hey! Back after an absence. Shall I start my posts with that lovely phrase, ‘Dear Diary…’, thereby keeping at bay the terrible affliction of Blogger’s Block (why?…for whom? …the futility of the artistic life…oh, woe is me!).

We have a new wave of internet democracy, and each of us has a voice (a Face, a Twitter, a Blog). There is wonder and power in it – a chance for each of us to be heard. But my, the frenzy of it all! Each of us shouting to be heard, with only the most conscientious taking time to listen to her neighbour’s voice. It brings to mind those raucous images of tens of thousands of jostling seabirds, all shouting out their own stories, each desperate to be noticed and singled out. The lucky pelican may win the Turner Prize, another may be spotted by a dealer (Saatchi even), the bird with the most beautiful pouch will become a supermodel, and the laconic pelican with a career in television presenting will win a million followers. And the rest of us…

…I once was walking on my favourite beach in Wales, when something caught my eye. I bent down and picked, from amongst the million pebbles, a round, smooth, palm-sized stone. On it, an artist had drawn a sandalled foot, each toe perfectly contained within the curve of the rounded stone.

It was truly like finding an incredible treasure, and my excitement over it has never dulled. It sits on my hearth, a small work of art whose maker I will never know. Had I stumbled on an undiscovered Picasso in a junk shop, I would not have been as thrilled (though a lot richer).

The act of art requires constant unquestioning faith. We have to create in the absolute belief that, of all the thousands of pebbles on the beach, our one small pebble will be found and treasured. Whether it be a blog, an oil painting, a chance comment, or a way of life, seeds will be sown. We need to dream, not of the seedlings, but of future forests.

And without creative forests, our world cannot survive.