Threads

I sit here machine piecing together some fabric I’ve had for probably about 5 years, collected over a long period, from old clothing and bits and pieces, none bought new. They are making a quilt, to go with the “new” curtains that have been stashed under the bed for about 8 years. I have no idea why it has taken this long. We had a window replaced in the bedroom, and the plaster has remained unpainted in all that time, waiting for goodness knows what. It’s our bedroom, so nobody sees it but us. So we neglect ourselves.

I have written here and other places, and discussed at length, the difference between art and craft. I have plenty of craft skills, immodestly I proclaim some of them to be pretty damn good. I have honed them over my entire lifetime. I can stitch anyone into a cocked hat!

Then I did an Artist Teacher Scheme (twice) and a Masters in Arts Practice and Education. The Fine Artist in me didn’t want to do “just” craft… The poncey fine artist wanted elevation! Garbage.

Does craft have no meaning then? Does the craftsman or craftswoman not think? Does their work not evoke an emotional response either in themselves or others?

This quilt I stitch here, heavily loaded with haptic reward is equally heavily loaded with meaning. I have been under stress for a while. These things grow without you knowing, and without you being able to pinpoint where it all started, or which little thing was really the thing that broke the camel’s back. This quilt, alongside my unpackaging the curtains, and buying green paint for the bedroom wall feels hugely symbolic. The making of it is cathartic, possibly therapeutic. It is also both practical and decorative. I plan to stitch useless embroidery all over it. It marks my mental state, and puts forward an intention. We should not neglect ourselves.

I am not renouncing the fine artist, merely pointing out that she was there all the time. I was just too busy trying to be poncey to see it.

This afternoon saw the launch of the spring show at ArtSpace. A selection of work from all across the area, and a representative sample of mine in its own spot. It was a good afternoon, and about half way through it something dawned on me: This isn’t really a new thing at all. Someone came in that I knew from Wolverhampton, someone else from poetry nights in Kidderminster. Someone I taught about 20 years ago. There were afew laughs, conversations were had, ranging from the experiences of Romanian immigrants in Dudley, to the inclusion of expensive adjectives on bags of crisps… salt and vinegar being so much cheaper than Sea Salt and Balsamic Vinegar…

Several people were one-step removed from other artists I knew, and new links were forged. That’s a little bit of a Dudley pun.

What this did was reassure. I felt I was in the right place, that I could do something here. Also, it was a good place to inhabit, among like minded folk, while I discovered where I was going to go and what I am going to do next.

This current body of work feels almost done… and the next thing hasn’t quite dawned on me yet. I know it will, because I still have lots of stitching to do, and that always oils the thinking cogs.

The Greatcoat for America is packed up and set to go. I feel a bit of a parental pang, sending it away on its own.

We have been disappointed not to get Arts Council funding for the US exhibition and allied projects, so although it will still go ahead, it is at our own expense, and with the generosity of our American friends, and whatever funds we have raised ourselves up to now. But having had that disappointment, it is with a heavy heart that I wait for the result of the funding application that will allow Bo and I to work together properly for the first time.

Studio Day then today.

What is really great is, I don’t have a list of tasks to complete by a deadline, one set by me or anyone else. I’m not naive enough to think this will always be the case, but a large chunk of me hopes it will.

The place, the space, the time, the alone-ness of today.

I have a sketchbook, materials to use in it. I have a small heap of fabric. I have scissors, needles and thread. I have a large layered drawing on the wall. I have absolutely no idea where that is going, except I wanted to celebrate the space by doing a drawing that involved me using my arms and legs, not just my arms from the elbows down.

I might tackle any of these things. Or none. I might start something new. Or as there is no one about to be disturbed or disturbed by my wailing, I might do some messing about with my song.

After the last few days, I am aiming for the empty head. No expectations of myself. I am treating myself kindly. I am sleeping well (Sleep! Eight hours at a time!) I am eating well, and trying to get myself moving a bit more. I had become a sloth.

I attempt repair. It’s going pretty well.

I have a pile of ironing. Not clothes, but table linens, old, embroidered, loved but abandoned. Crunchy, creased, wrinkled and worn. They have old faded stains here and there.

They have piled up over months. I use them, then discard them after laundering.

Ignored. Uncared for.

Today I will tend to them as the sun blazes through the windows.

Dampen them to relieve the crunchiness, relax the fibres, ease the stresses.

Sprayed to feed them, smoothed with hands and warmth.

Folded, re-piled in size and colour order.

I shall choose my favourite and lay it across my table.

I will pick primroses, and tiny daffodils to decorate it, draw attention to its beauty.

Agnes Obel listens to the hiss of the steam as I listen to her fingers on the piano keys.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6h9XUYj96ho&list=AL…

When NOT TO blog, and when TO blog, became an internal argument with myself about HOW to blog…

I was accused of copping out after my last post.

So while this streaming cold I have ensures my sporadic insomnia becomes total, I lie awake at 5am, thinking about how I can blog what I am currently feeling. How I can be more open about it.

I have an amazing job. At least it was amazing up until Christmas. In January, everything changed.

I teach art, and just art, in a primary school. It is the school my own children went to. My eldest son is 29 this year, so for almost 25 yrs, I have felt part of this place, hugely proud of this place the people in it, and what they did for my children – both of whom now teach. They are a testament to its ethos. The school’s mission statement, a thing bolted onto many establishments, was a tenet we lived by: Bringing out the best in everyone, for the benefit of all, in the spirit of Christ. Whether you believe in the last bit or not, bringing out the best in everyone, for the benefit of all is a pretty good thing.

I have worked there for exactly ten years next month. I hold the belief that getting best from everyone happens through valuing the whole person, their talents, preferences, personalities. I felt as a member of staff, those things were valued, in me and those around me, from dinner ladies who were there for an hour or so in the middle of the day, to the head teacher, who seemed to be there from dawn to dusk and beyond, to the wonderful teachers and classroom assistants, to the knowledgeable secretary, to the cleaners, who took such pride in their work, they were frequently awarded 100% by the council inspection team. Of course the children were assessed, of course data was collected, but it never seemed to be the driving force. Professional trust was the thing. It was assumed. And consequently given. In this atmosphere I blossomed. I finished my long-abandoned BA, and completed my MA in Arts Practice and Education. My experience, specialism and skill were respected, and used, my opinion sought.

In this atmosphere of respect and valuing of all, the children flourish too. We thought so, and Ofsted thought so too. We are an outstanding school. We are an outstanding school because of all the reasons above. Our individual differences and weirdnesses not just tolerated, but seen as part of life’s rich pattern and celebrated. I have visited and worked in dozens of schools in my time, and none of them feel like this one did. Past tense.

Since January, it seems to me it is only the scores that count. I have been asked to do less art, and to support maths and English. This is not what I am good at. Being asked to do this has felt like a personal attack. But it has also felt like an attack on my subject, that I have repeatedly tried to defend. It has felt like an attack on the children who excel in the arts, but perhaps struggle in the more formal areas of the curriculum. I felt I had to defend them too. I tried to manage the change of leadership. I tried to understand the other person’s point of view. I tried to minimise the effects. I have found it increasingly difficult to do so. I feel undermined, belittled, unappreciated, disregarded. I have been asked to be a square peg in a round hole. I believe that some of the children are being asked the same.

My philosophy of education had grown through being in this school. I didn’t even realise I had one until it came under attack.

This week, the requests upon my time became concrete, time related, deadline driven. I couldn’t take any more. Having been given a deadline, I panicked. I feel grief-stricken. I now find myself signed off work. I need time away to think how I can cope with this, or even, perhaps, if I can cope with this.