Keeping It Going

It feels ironic to me that at the same time as thinking and writing about the issue of silence, I seem to have so much to say! One thought led to another, however, and there wasn’t enough space in my last post to write about a headline that impacted on me before leaving for Scotland.

On August 21st, the national papers reported the death of Helen Bamber, psychotherapist and human rights activist.

I was really saddened by news of her death – ‘the loss of another wonderful woman whose life affected those of others in so many ways,’ as Susie Orbach commented.

I had the good fortune to meet Helen Bamber in a professional capacity some years ago when she was the founder of the organisation, then known as The Medical Foundation for the Care of Victims of Torture, now named the Freedom from Torture. Passionate, warm, articulate and compassionate beyond belief, hearing her speak inspired me for many years to come. I was (and will continue to be) completely in awe of her immense courage and extraordinary capacity to take on the pain and suffering of so many men, women and children.

Thinking about her death as I write this, takes me right back to the issue of silence. Helen Bamber didn’t stay silent. She spoke up and became a crucial voice for others – for those who were so traumatised by what they’d experienced at the hands of their fellow human beings, that they were silenced by their pain.

At first, Helen Bamber said she felt useless in the face of so much suffering. Gradually, however, she realised that, while she couldn’t change the past, she could at least listen.

‘People wanted to tell their story and I was able to receive it,’ she told an interviewer from ‘The Observer’ in 2008, when relaying her experience of working with survivors of Nazi concentration camps.

‘They would hold me and dig their thin fingers into my arm and rasp this story out … They would rock back and forth and I would say to them, “I will tell your story. Your story will not die.” It took me a long time to realise that that was all I could do.’

Helen Bamber helped to establish the first medical group in the British section of Amnesty International, which recorded testimony and documented evidence of human rights violations.

Thank goodness for the likes of her – courageous enough not to remain silent; to speak up against the horrors of the Holocaust and the subsequent world-wide atrocities and violations of human rights – and essentially,  enabling victims of torture to find their own voice to do the same:

‘The crucial lesson to master is how to hold, contain and sustain people who have suffered immense atrocity and loss.’ to quote Helen Bamber, herself.

A truly remarkable woman. Here’s an extract taken from the Helen Bamber Foundation literature, just a small part of the extraordinary legacy she has left behind her:

‘For almost seventy years, Helen dedicated her life to those who suffered torture, trafficking, slavery and other forms of extreme human cruelty. She began her career aged 20, working with survivors of the holocaust in the former concentration camp of Bergen Belsen. Since 1945, she has helped tens of thousands of men, women and children to confront the horror and brutality of their experiences.’

Home. Or hame, as my Dad would say. A two week holiday with my family in Scotland is over and we’re back, trying to re-establish some sort of routine alongside the start of a new school term.

This year’s summer break turned out to be a trip of strong contrasts – from the manic world of Edinburgh’s Fringe Festival to the peace and tranquility of a visit to the Holy Isle, a small island off the coast of Arran – and back again, to a calmer, post-Festival Edinburgh.

Holy Isle is a short boat trip away from Arran’s Lamlash Bay. True to its reputation as a unique healing place, steeped in a long spiritual history dating back to the 6th century, the island made a real impact on me. It’s now owned by the Samye Ling Buddhist community and there are a series of day and residential programmes and retreats organised by them on the north of the island.

I’ve been thinking about the whole concept of silence a lot since my visit. Committing oneself to sustained periods of silence plays a strong role in the spiritual practice while on a Buddhist retreat – to the south of Holy Isle, there is a closed, private retreat where people go to stay for periods of up to three years at a time. I quite frequently fantasise about being in silent places – being silent, myself – hearing aids firmly switched off – enough of the constant chatter, both person to person and electronically.

I’ve been thinking about silence in relation to my creative work as well – how much I enjoy silence in the studio, for example – how much silence to exercise when presenting and talking about my work – silence versus engagement, especially when it comes to participatory work and working with an audience. Taking my 10×10 project to various locations has been a real learning curve in this respect – gauging when people want to interact and when they don’t; it’s not always clear.

Being silenced has found its way into my work in the past – through the physical act of tying black ribbons, gag-like, over the mouths of china figurine faces, for example – quite literally, silencing them – shutting them up.

Shutting myself up, too, perhaps?

I think probably, yes. Certainly, when I tied the ribbon gags over the mouths of the female figurines, I was conscious of what it meant. Not only was it a reference to how frequently women are silenced, their opinions counting for nothing – the gesture also demonstrated that some things are best left unsaid, best to keep shtum, however strongly you might feel.

Like so many things in life, it’s about finding a balance – finding a balance and keeping things in perspective. Which is what taking time out and getting away from it all is all about for me. I loved being on the Holy Isle in North Ayrshire – was completely mesmerised by the stillness and tranquility of what to me, is a very special place. And Ayrshire after all, is the birthplace of my beloved late Father, Alex.

I caught a glimpse of a newspaper article just before I left for Scotland in mid August, questioning the current safety levels for tourists visiting the Middle Eastern Holy Land. The irony of the reference to the term ‘holy’ hasn’t escaped me. I felt a million miles away from conflict or turmoil of any sort as I stood and read the various messages on a peace post – a million miles away from the chaos, the carnage and the disturbing images coming out of Gaza, as written about in my last post here.

Compare the news coverage and images of how that holy land has looked recently – wrecked, bomb shelled and utterly war ravaged – with the beauty of the peaceful, tranquil landscape of the beautiful Scottish Holy Isle.

This year’s summer break as I said, turned out to be one of strong contrasts.

There are times when life puts art firmly into perspective. I’ve always believed that art can’t exist in a vacuum. One of its main purposes, for me, is to reflect what’s happening in the world.

This morning I read an article in The Guardian about a father whose sons have recently been diagnosed with a life-shortening genetic disorder. If this doesn’t help put into perspective what really matters, then I don’t know what will. You can read the article here:

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/aug/16/our-beautiful-sons-could-die-before-us?CMP=twt

And then there’s what’s been happening elsewhere in the world. The recent events in Gaza (and in Syria and Iraq, too) must surely have touched us all. Who could fail to be moved by the reports and harrowing images coming out of these countries? Innocent civilians, many of them children, killed and maimed; homes and communities totally destroyed.

I’ve been deeply affected by the scenes of people in Gaza sifting through piles of rubble (once their homes) in the hope of finding some remnant of their past lives – a photo, perhaps; birth certificates proving that their children exist – or not, as the case may be. Ever sentimental when it comes to personal possessions, I can’t even start to imagine what it feels like to lose everything in such a brutal, violent way. Headlines like ‘Civilians pick through ruins of homes to salvage belongings’, ‘Choosing what to save’ and ‘Proof of a life’ have stayed with me.

These shocking events in the wider world have brought the sorting process I’ve documented here over the past few months sharply into perspective. The contrast is stark. While I’ve been wondering at my leisure what I should keep, the people from these war torn areas have had their possessions, quite literally, blown away.

It’s made me think again, about the motivation behind my art and what I do; how fortunate I am in comparison to have a choice over what I do and to exist in a safe, stable environment. I have the privilege of choosing the items I would like to keep and secure surroundings in which to keep them.

It makes me realise just how lucky I am to be able to have this kind of control over my life – I’ve never been forced back by war or the sheer struggle to survive like the people in Gaza, Syria or Iraq. And this won’t be the first time for many of them, either, that their homes have been shelled and ripped apart, all possessions lost. Sadly, it probably also won’t be the last.

For me, these dreadful images and stories touch on what is at the heart of my practice and resonate with what my work reflects – ‘the permanence of objects and the fragility of life ‘ as described in my artist statement. Despite hundreds of people’s lives being wiped out through direct military action, objects can and do survive – the photos, the birth certificates in the article I’ve linked to below.

I’ve never had to experience anything remotely like the suffering these people are going through. Compared to their daily struggles, my moans about how laborious the task of de-cluttering is, my fretting over how hard it is to make a decision to let go of the things I’ve grown emotionally attached to, pale into absurd insignificance.

A lot of the art I make is produced as a means of trying to make sense of my own world and the world at large, so that other people can relate to it. If art holds up a mirror to society and reflects life as it really is for others outside of my own safe, secure home and art life, then it can only be a positive thing. It’s all about keeping things in perspective.

http://www.click2houston.com/news/scenes-from-the-ground-in-gaza/27168172

This Saturday marks my late Nana’s birthday. Born on July 26th 1908, Nana reached the grand age of 102 years, before her death in September 2010. I always find anniversaries a powerful time – a time for reflecting and looking back. It was thinking about my Nana that reminded me I’ve never fully documented a piece of work that I created at the end of last year.

It was called Here Today, Gone Tomorrow, one of three pieces made for a group show, The Beginning of History. I remember this particular piece of work having a strong impact on me when I made it, and looking back, I came across this blog post, written in February 2013:

‘Here Today, Gone Tomorrow stirred something deep in me which needed to be processed.

It was the emotional connection to the objects that touched and moved me. Such intimate and highly personal objects, still here, physically present – in the flesh, as it were – while the hands that touched and used them, left their trace on them, no longer exist.

‘The permanence of objects’ – the mirror, the powder, the make-up, the faded silk flower – and the powder puff especially, for me, so reminiscent of the skin itself – recollections of precious moments spent with Nana at her dressing table.

These physical objects, however battered and used, essentially all still exist, while the woman whose life was so intrinsically involved in using them, no longer does – that fine line ‘between the permanence of objects and the fragility of life.’

During The Beginning of History, the show’s curator, Nick Kaplony, suggested that I might like to interact with one of the pieces of work I had created while it was in situ – to add to and take away the various objects I’d accumulated. In doing so, I would be literally acting out the whole concept of the work’s title: here today, gone tomorrow. I welcomed the suggestion – it appealed to me to have a chance to experiment with my work, an opportunity to keep the work more fluid. These photos document the process better than anything I can write:

Interacting with the objects inevitably brought me closer to them and what they represented. Memories of a past Grandmother/daughter relationship. Loss. The fragility of life, whatever age you might live to. Small wonder that it touched me in the way it did. It made me want to explore this area further and has led me to creating more assemblages, built around my recollections of the various objects from my Nana’s life – their history, their colours, the materials they were made up of.

One point that’s perhaps worth making is that not all of the objects I use actually belonged to my Nana. Maybe it’s because so much of my recent work has revolved around my Nana’s life, that some people understandably assume that it’s based solely and literally on her and her life.

In fact, although the four items used for Here Today in its initial stage and many of the other objects added at a later date did belong to my Nana; the kitten books and pictures didn’t. I added them as being representative of the kind of thing that any Nana of a certain age and class might have in her home. I’ve been collecting such paraphernalia for many years – way before my Nana’s death, in fact.

Although my Nana is often the starting point for this sort of work, I am always consciously trying to reach out to an audience as part of a shared experience. My hope is that my work will resonate with other people, remind them of their own lives and prompt them to share their own responses to it. That would be a fitting tribute to my dearly missed Nana.

Yesterday’s conversation with a neighbour who’s about to go back to work after maternity leave has got me thinking again about my own situation career-wise and what a different experience I’ve had since becoming an artist. After many years of working in the public sector, the past six years or so has seen me experiencing huge changes as I’ve become increasingly acquainted with working within an art environment as opposed to the public sector; with artists as opposed to public sector workers.

I hadn’t realised until I no longer had it, just how protected I felt in my previous career – working within a unionised work force, protected by the various employment contracts I signed over the years. Being paid was on the agenda, full stop. Before the recession hit, I hadn’t even heard of unpaid internships – how on earth could I – could anyone – work for nothing? How would you survive?

Transparency and openness was key; I was clear about what was expected of me and had a clear idea about what to expect of my colleagues, too – who was the senior member of staff on any one shift, what my various line manager’s responsibility towards me were, mine to them and so on.

I also had certain expectations of how professional people behave and moved in a circle where people anticipated nothing but the best from each other and strong, cohesive staff teams were consequently created; staff meetings were high on managers’ agendas and there was a true sense of democracy with regards to most decision making. It felt like there was an underlying trust and respect for each other, encouraged perhaps by the fact that in child protection cases, the work was hard enough as it was – and so, the general consensus was one of pulling together and genuinely caring about each other, whatever one’s professional status; caring for the carers, essentially.

I also had a pretty clear idea what wages my team members were on, according to the grade they were appointed to. Rivalry and competition consequently, was hardly an issue; the workforce generally felt secure and protected and consequently, clear and focused on the job at hand.

Which is exactly the point I want to keep returning to – the job at hand. How to keep it going, crucially – how to keep making the work and to keep myself distracted from some of the inevitable unfairness and hypocrisy that can arise as a result of things not being clear and transparent.

These frustrations are a distraction to my creative practice, capable of steering me away from the act of making and can easily prevent me from achieving what I set out to do.

It takes determination and effort and a lot of forward planning to keep things effectively focused and moving forwards, especially I think if like me, you’re a real stickler for what’s morally right and what’s wrong. It’s an obvious enough point to make and a lot of people universally are doing the same, but yesterday’s conversation with my neighbour around her anxieties of the work/childcare balance has made me readdress what really is important to me – both as an artist and a mother. And of course, in terms of my creative work.

The transfer of this website takes place tomorrow – on the same day as my son’s last GCSE exam. And so it feels timely to be writing this now. It feels almost like I’ve written some sort of note to self – the dos and don’ts in preparation for the next phase in my creative work, whatever that might be.

It also feels like the end of a long and challenging term – but a time of potential positive change, nevertheless. I have a long summer ahead of me, with teenage sons who will have no defined structure to their days. No wonder then, that yesterday’s work/life balance conversation with my neighbour felt significant – alerting me to a sense of urgency with regards to effectively managing my own time.

With all this in mind, plus (literally) stepping up a training programme for a long distance walk I’ve committed myself to taking part in, in early September, I’m looking forward to seeing what the summer brings.