Threads

When I started this blog, I hardly ever talked about my teaching. I think I wanted to establish the Artist Identity first, before letting out my shameful secret!

I think I sort of managed it. I think I do have an Artist Identity.

The Teacher identity is a struggle. I’m not denying its existence, but it wrestles power from the Artist. Since re-establishing myself as the Artist, the Teacher isn’t happy. There has been a permanent wrangling between them. I feel the two have overlapping time-share rights.

At the moment, the Teacher has been temporarily evicted from her home. The Artist is cock-a-hoop!

On occasion, I have been asked questions such as “How do you integrate your art practice in your classroom?” and my answer has most often been “I don’t”

But as I reassess and look around me for new opportunities and ways to change my life and work, some of the most attractive opportunities are those which could be loosely called educational. I think the key word here is LOOSELY.

The Artist is fed up with the Teacher being hide-bound by prescription, inspection and on no account deviation.

I think the reason the Artist has denied the Teacher is that the Teacher had become a bit of a fuddy-duddy. The Teacher hasn’t been happy with the Teacher for quite a while either.

I think I am probably a teacher by nature. It is in me. Can’t deny it.

BUT… I think I’ve been doing the wrong sort of teaching…

I’ve used the word “think” about 7 times in this short blog.

Been thinking a lot lately.

Strangely, middle aged women tend to get a little bit frosty when you ask if you can have their discarded underwear…

Can’t imagine why!

I have been thinking about this a lot. And while I wait around for Bo, money, and my flight to New York, this is a good time to tackle it perhaps.

I was also asked today to state, in one sentence, why I choose to use discarded clothing in my work. I came up with two sentences…

“Discarded clothing brings its own history that I can use as a short cut to memory – mine and the viewers’. Stains, wear and tear, and its style and vintage all add to the narrative that I can interfere with for my own purposes.”

Up until recently, children’s clothes have been the thing. I love them, and they will continue to be used, I’m sure. They are also accessible to a wide audience. It can be difficult to engage some people with contemporary art can’t it? But I find that a little girl’s dress or a romper suit with a train on the front, if nothing else prompts the “awww cute” initial response. My interferences* with this cute factor make it easy for me to engage people in conversation. I think the work is strong. But this accessibility factor makes it fascinating to me as an artist-teacher… another point for later discussion maybe?

Anyway…

Bras…

Worn, grey, elastic perished and useless, wires missing, some with mends and alterations…

I have been given a bag of them from someone who helps in a clothing bank. These would never be offered to anyone else. I was having trouble getting bras tatty enough for my use and interest. Of course no one I knew would dare give me such an item, with me knowing it to be theirs! The confession is shaming.

But I knew they existed… how? Because I have worn them myself. There’s a confession for you!

The tatty bra is a clear indication of how a woman feels about herself. (One has to disregard those fashioned to fit and put up with out of economic necessity)

On the outside all is respectable. The outside shows how the woman wants to be seen by the world, the outside is the mask, the performance. I am becoming a little obsessed with respectability, reputation, maintaining standards…

It hits in that cloudy, edgeless era of middle age… children had, tended to, brought up… work done… either career or just a job to pay the bills… housework, caring for elderly parents, cooking, cleaning, all those stereotypically feminine roles.

Due to lack of time, and pushing yourself further down the list of things that need dealing with, the bra is the last thing on your mind. Nobody sees it. Sometimes, sadly, really nobody. It becomes the thing you couldn’t possibly NOT wear, but also, often, the thing taken off at the first opportunity. It smacks of personal neglect and lack of self esteem.

Does the tatty old bra have a connection to the libido of the wearer?

Then…

Revolution!

A new bra dawns!

The beautiful, expensive, effective, lacy, silky, sexy thing right next to your skin…

It makes you walk differently… pushes your shoulders back… chin held high.

Suddenly, what is worn underneath shows on the outside! The return of self esteem, confidence and personal pride.

This is why I am drawing old bras. I think I want to start a sort of second wave of feminism burning old bras, and getting a bloody good new one, and strutting about in it!

*interference: I have been told this word isn’t the right one to use. It has unsavoury connotations. It has been suggested that I find another. No. I like it. It has lots of different meanings, and most of them at one time or another refer to the things I do to discarded clothing.

A bit of a catch up post perhaps?

Lots of bits and pieces… and a Big Thing…

Big Thing first: The Greatcoat (Title: “Blown Away”) has been installed in the Dykeman-Young Gallery in Jamestown, New York, and the Private View for this gallery and the other one the group are inhabiting – the 3rd on 3rd Gallery – happens tonight! I am told there will be youtube video of this event, so I’ll attach it below, or to the next post when it appears.

I’m very excited, and have been wishing I could be there for the hang and the PV, rather than the close. But hey-ho and all that! If you want to follow progress, there are links below.

I’m pleased some of Bo’s work is there too. We’ve spent the last couple of years hanging work together, so it seems right a sample of his work should venture across with me.

We await results of a funding application we made, to allow us to work together for a change, instead of not-quite-collaboration by email and misconstrued texting. If this one doesn’t happen, there are other pots we can apply to but I want to do it NOW! I am impatient. Bo is calm and philosophical. I am headless chicken. The two of us in the same studio could, quite honestly, be a bloody nightmare! But we are willing to risk it, because, also, the work produced could be really amazing and fly us both off in any direction. We have an exhibition proposal in the pipelines too. If I could get my act together and write something.

I have applied for a couple of competitions, and now I have extra time at the moment, regard the act of looking for funding as a necessary and useful way to spend my time. Before, it was time spent away from making, and I resented it.

My school situation is still unresolved, and I think it will be so for a little while yet. The trip to NY will be a catalyst for change I feel. When I come back, and see everything laid before me, I will know what needs to be done, and how to do it. Hopefully. We will see.

I am making happily… no photos yet, as the end is not in sight, and won’t be for a bit. I am armour plating some protective children’s clothing… sort of…

I’m also still singing and recording. I have about 3 songs almost there, and I have one being formulated in my head still, that will sit alongside the protective clothing.

I’m also drawing. Bras… as mentioned a while back… I have several thin paper ink drawings, and a large layered drawing on my studio wall… a bit of collage here and there. Those ideas are slopping about in my brain, I visit them, and then carry on with something else… flitting about joyously in this new space of mine.

I think this small room with a view of farmfoods, the bus station and the castle, could well hold the solution…

https://www.facebook.com/pages/SCI/170190669682733

http://dryadart.wordpress.com/

Performance then…

Suffice to say I didn’t make an absolute tit of myself.

I had practised (a lot) so was confident of not forgetting the words, or the structure of the song.

It helped my confidence enormously that I had two talented and experienced musicians either side of me, including Dan Whitehouse, (whose presence is reassuring: he has come to know me and my abilities and terrors well) and Chris Cleverley who had helped me wrangle a song out of the basic melody and the lyrics… you would be surprised how much more it takes! (Look Dan and Chris up on t’internet, they’re great)

So off I went… I sang it as I wanted to sing it. I didn’t chicken out of the louder, higher bit in the middle, or the slow bit at the end with the longer notes. At the end, I introduced the next performer and scuttled to my seat at the back of the room, to let that hot feeling subside, and my knees to stop trembling.

I can’t say that I am a natural performer. I work hard at it, and force myself to do it. I’m still not quite sure why. I believe it to be good for me I suppose. But going to the gym would be, and I don’t force myself to do that do I?

Maybe it is something to do with the instant response you get from an audience that you don’t get from a gallery… you don’t get a laugh or a round of applause.

There is definitely something about singing. Those of you that don’t, should. Even if it is out of tune and not for public consumption, take yourself off somewhere and let it rip!

Singing at all is a whole body experience. Singing words and melody you have written yourself can be a whole soul experience, whether you have an audience or not. I have no pretensions to effecting my audience in a deep and long lasting, meaningful way, but as an audience member, there have been moments when I have been moved to tears, even sobs. I have been moved to giggles, sympathy, anger… grief… whatever. Some songs stay with you for that reason. Songs that do this are very personal. My list wouldn’t be your list.

Also… you take music with you, in a different way to a visual image. The hook does its job, and crops up when you least expect it, and sometimes don’t know where it has come from.

During the process of doing the MA, I started work on this. My final exhibition included a song, and for the final assessment, I did sing, sat on the steps in the dim basement of the School of Art in Margaret St, Birmingham, accompanied only by a stout pair of dressmaking shears.

Since finishing the course, I haven’t really done much. I have recited poetry, and very occasionally sung that. But it isn’t the same.

A SONG can be a beautiful, magical thing. Modern songs have a recognisable structure and ingredients. These can be spotted across the genres. So you build it…. When it is finished, sometimes immediately, sometimes after a great deal of hard work and wrestling and wrangling…. Sometimes you find you have something perfect, beautiful, emotional.

To reiterate a phrase I have come to take as my motto, Aristotle’s “The whole is greater than the sum of its parts” A song has the ability to transcend, rejoice, protest, lament….

So, natural performer or not, I find I want to write more songs, work them and hone them, just in case, one day, it makes one person swallow a bit harder. I find the lyrics develop as I make things, the visual pieces I make prompt the making of story and character, and this is where they come from, so this is where I want them to sit, alongside the visual pieces. I want to sink the hook in, make an association between the audio and the visual, so that my work is taken away.

Got a lot of work to do.

https://soundcloud.com/elena-thomas/numb-live-song…

https://soundcloud.com/chris-cleverley

https://www.facebook.com/chriscleverleymusic

www.dan-whitehouse.com

I had a dream about my Dad last night.

So forgive the nostalgia…

Two remarkable things there: firstly, the advantage of finding currently that I can sleep for more than 2 or 3 hours at a time is that I have started dreaming again, secondly, I can’t remember the last time I dreamt about my Dad. I dream about my Mum all the time. She is present in my waking hours too as I go about my day. But not Dad.

Anyway… he was “helping” me hang my work in a gallery. I don’t have any idea what he would think about this life I lead and this work I do. He died in 2005, before my life totally changed. Sometimes I wonder if it the passing of both my parents, and both my parents-in-law that was a catalyst for the change.

My Dad was a practical man. He was a man of sheds, string and large nails, not screws. His skin was walnut brown all year round until his very late years, when due to lack of outdoor activity, it paled. He was as strong as an ox. He had the muscles of a working man, not a gym man. (My youngest son has his grin I think.) As a child our back garden was used for vegetables. I had a small area with a home made swing right outside the kitchen window, on a small patch of grass. The front garden had snowdrops, primroses, violets, a pear tree and thousands of wasps that never stung me…why was that? Anything decorative was planted in straight stripes either side of the path… but he couldn’t really see the point.

When he visited us here, he used to shake his head in disbelief that I had TREES planted in POTS. And they weren’t even fruit trees. What is the point of having a horse chestnut tree, or an ash, or a rowan, or a beech in a POT? (Note to family: when I’ve gone you can set them free and plant them somewhere nice). He was called the “Phantom Pruner” because if you didn’t watch him closely, he would chop everything down to ground level, mercilessly. If you hid the secateurs, he would use the age old stone-sharpened knife in his pocket.

My childhood memories of him are that he worked hard, from early in the morning, and I didn’t see him much. So when I do remember him it is for daft things. I used to ask him to draw for me… he had a small repertoire, consisting of chickens, ducks, pigs and houses. Careful examination of the feet was needed to distinguish between chickens and ducks. He also used to sing a couple of songs to me. Out of tune, and in broken English. I can remember both drawing and singing rendered me helpless with laughter, as he would protest with mock indignation and swear never to sing or draw again.

So why was he helping me in my gallery then? I think he was reminding me that pictures can be hung with nails and it is ok. They don’t always have to be level. They can be wonky, and someone that loves it will love it just the same. No one ever went into a gallery and made the comment “Those pictures were hung so level, and screwed so securely to the wall they made me cry!”

I think it might have been a way of reminding me which bits are important.