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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.

I’ve had a rubbish week.

And unusually for me, I’m not going to tell you why, as this isn’t really the right place for such discussion. One day I might, but not now.

But…

What I will say is, when one person makes life difficult, there are loads of other people who make life wonderful. So I will write about the wonderful instead.

Songwriting Circle continues to be an evening of such joy. It requires such concentration, it absorbs and delights me every Monday. It has provided a means of dealing with my emotional state, with structure, discipline and certain formal conventions, but also allows for a little madness and imagination. The people I meet there are talented and generous with that talent.

On Tuesdays and Wednesdays I spend much of my time in my studio. This is great, feeds my soul and brings me strength and fortitude to deal with some of the crap.

On Fridays, I draw. Life drawing, for any of you that haven’t done it, or don’t do it, is a marvellous thing. We have a fantastic model, (Briony Lewis, If any of you need her can be found at http://www.lifemodellife.co.uk ) who challenges us and is as much part of the group as any of the artists. We are fuelled by tea, biscuits and chatter, not a group to everyone’s taste, but it is great. We are a weird bunch, but curiously loyal to each other.

Saturdays I am now spending my time in the gallery workshop at ArtSpace Dudley, where my studio is. I love the idea that it is an Art Space for everyone from toddlers to pensioners, beginners, amateurs and professional artists and craftspeople, all greeted with equal respect and no art bollocks.

Sundays, at home, now curiously art free, home centred. I’ve been making things… cushion covers, cakes. I’ve been cleaning the bathroom, even ironing.

I have around me a lovely, patient, calm but probably confused husband who in times of stress, brings me tea and gluten-free crumpets in bed. I have friends who drive me into the countryside to picturesque tea shops and listen to me rant and shout till the bacon sandwich arrives and I eventually shut up. I have other friends who respond supportively, and teasingly, laughing at the absurdity of my posturing, ensuring I retain a sense of perspective.

I list these wonderful things in order to get the crap in proportion, and find a way of dealing with it.

I became impatient.

Those readers who know me, will know this isn’t unusual.

I had intended the layered piece to be a piece on its own, the research, the experiment from which other works would follow. But actually, in itself, it wasn’t that interesting. As a material to be used for something else, it became far more so. So after all that time of layering and stitching, I have started to cut into it.

Now the layers can be seen it is like a serving of lasagne, as opposed to a dish of lasagne.

I cut a circle, and cut two slots into it, and buttoned them together to make the baby mask.

This is an interesting thing now.

It has become a sinister thing.

A protective item, soft things layered into an unyeilding whole. Definitely protective, but perhaps also smothering. This is getting me somewhere. This duality of protection and harm is where I at least, am comfortable… but uneasily so… you see…. Ambiguous. An attempt to protect that goes too far.

I put this photo on my facebook artist page, because Bo said he’d quite like a photo of it being worn, so that he could manipulate the image. His work with viruses and bacteria is developing very nicely, so the link with my protection issues is obvious.

Both of us grin in a sinister manner…

No takers… no artists with babies wanting a photo of their little one wearing this delicate piece… When I post photos of work I usually get a fair few likes and shares. This has hardly been looked at, it hasn’t been liked or shared.

I think I might be onto something.

Today is an Elliot Smith Day.

Some days are.

Perfect music to work with… I can tune in and out of it.

Some of it washes gently over me, barely making a ripple on my consciousness, my brain carries on working and thinking. Here, it masks the noise of people passing by in Birdcage Walk below.

But then I find myself tuning back in again for occasional lines

“The moon is a sickle cell, it’ll kill you in time…” (Coming up Roses)

“The enemy is within, don’t confuse me with him…” (Stupidity Tries)

“It’s all about taking the easy way out for you I suppose…” (Easy Way Out)

And I wonder what effect if any these lines have on my work, or whether the rhythm of the zoning in and out is like a sort of brain-breathing thing? Sometimes, I sit back, sing a whole song, then go back under again.

I always seem to come up for Waltz #2…

Then back to work…

“in the place where I make no mistakes, in the place where I have what it takes…”

Then occasionally I come out somewhere unexpected, disorientated, wondering who it is that’s singing, convinced I’ve never heard this track before.

I don’t always work with music. Sometimes only silence will do, or the outside noises that today I’m trying to drown out. It’s just a mood thing.

But the first thing I installed in this new space was the capacity to play music. Everything else followed that.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dBxYfLqKyew

Things are going well in the making. I still layer these scraps up, plugging gaps while trying to leave areas exposed. It is instinctive, the size and shape and positioning of each little bit. It might look disorganised, random, but I have a strict set of mental rules about what is right and works and what is totally wrong.

I have a few things in mind that have to be made, to satisfy this urge of work, these protective items I feel compelled to make. But in the distance, I see a rising dust cloud of something different approaching. I don’t know how long it’ll take to get here. But it will. I think it might be something big… what I’m making now are tests and trials, and experiments in preparation for something yet unidentified….

I drink my third cup of tea here in my studio, contemplating my middle class greed. I have a delicious lemon tart from Costa. I watch a woman through my window, downstairs in Birdcage Walk, sat on the wall outside farmfoods. I have ten bra drawings on the wall in front of me. She isn’t wearing one under her stained grey Cambridge University t shirt. I can tell. Either that or it is so old it is no longer doing its job. She has grey hair four inches from the roots, the remaining four inches is orange. She is wearing slippers. I watch as she methodically peels a creme egg. She then, with a cheery grin of gold, black and gaps, pops the whole thing in. Now she has both hands free, she rolls a cigarette, lights up and smokes it through the goo in her mouth. I turn away wondering which she will finish first… Or if she relishes the joy of making them both last as long as each other…I pop the last mouthful of lemon tart into my gob, and drain the last gulp of Lady Grey tea from my V&A mug. My hands, now free, type with sticky fingers.