Threads

A see-saw existence perhaps?

Teacher/~Artist~/Teacher/~Artist

I lurch from one to the other, never seemingly striking a balance. Perhaps a benevolent parasitic arrangement between the two? The Teacher/Host supports the greedy selfish artist wasp?

This week the teacher is fighting back:

Having had a really good day with Y1 and their printing, today I guided Y5 through the designing and making of new hangings for the school hall. They will be a permanent fixture in school, and the children are fascinated by the idea they could still be there when their own children start school. Consequently they are taking this task very seriously: they want to know about bondaweb and sewing machines and embroidery, and washability. They have each had their ideas considered, each hanging includes one idea from each child, they all have a real part in its making and its shared design process. They are cooperative and helpful. Today, they got all their individual choices of fabrics together to see if they worked as a whole. For the most part they did, but the children were critical, and a few changes were made, and on the whole without argument, merely a discussion of the benefits of the change. Tonally, the figure needs to stand out from the background, so which do they change, what possibilities are there? They did brilliantly, and apart from saying things like “Can we make a decision about this tree then?” or, “Is that fabric a little bit too flowery for this?” they made the decisions themselves. I think it’ll look great.

The artist this week is having a hard time:

I’ve started a new train of thought and it feels decidedly dodgy. At the moment I am making clumsy, clunky, blatant statements in words and pictures. Inspired by, but not totally autobiographical, before you start to worry, there are observational bits in there too, drawn from other people’s lives, whether they know it or not. I lurch from the obvious and crass to the secret and vaguely confessional. Have talked about obviousness and confessional work here before. I have come to the conclusion that this is how my work is born, this is the cycle it goes through… I crash about a bit, then the disparate ideas settle down with each other, then slowly, a subtlety is teased out, an ambiguity is found, a balance. Then it is worth showing, is fit to be seen, is respectable. And this is where I am at the moment, contemplating respectability and what lies beneath.

Last ones… don’t you just love ’em?

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next 5…

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I can’t decide which to choose, so I’m posting about 15!

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Had a conversation with a friend about whether I should blog my miserableness of the last couple of days. I emailed my miserableness around a few friends, but blogging is different.

Who wants to read this?:

I feel I’m living a double life.

Even while feeling quite ill, I was able to function as an artist, but not a teacher. I was able to draw and make notes on certain concepts in my sketch book, but not even think about the stuff I had to do for school. I was able to concentrate on working out quite complicated designs and methods, but couldn’t contemplate doing simple printing with 16 children for half an hour. That’s what I’m doing this afternoon.

I don’t want to think about it. I know it is a good thing, and in principle want this sort of artist/teacher thing to be provided, but some days, like today, I don’t want to be the one providing. I very nearly wrote this in a blog, but thought I would probably regret it. I don’t know if after writing it here I’ll press delete or send at the moment… but it feels better to write it anyway.

I know I’m being particularly miserable about it at the moment, and it will pass I’m sure, and I’ll be all keen again. But at the moment I don’t want it.

perhaps it’s my age?

yeah that’s it.

maybe.

So I shall be slow today I think, take it gently, sit alone.

So I sent it (and now I’ve blogged it).

Then I went to work.

I don’t often talk about my teaching here, and welcome Bo starting his blog about teaching, because I’ve done quite a lot of discussion about my teaching there instead.

I was like a bear with a sore head.

Kept myself away from everyone as much as possible.

Great. Heating broken down. So like a recalcitrant toddler I stomped about. I’m ill! The one saving grace about taking myself into work was at least it would be warm.

No. It wasn’t. We all kept our coats on till lunchtime.

Still stomping and scowling about after lunch, I managed to get half of year one into aprons, and give out their printing blocks they’d made the week before. Did this without any getting broken. Then we squeezed ink onto tiles and rolled it out and spread it all over the tables, the roll of wallpaper, the chairs, the floors, up each other’s arms, up Mrs Thomas’ shirt and down her trousers. Then we printed. A row of smudgy, glorious houses, some fancy, with flowers and trees and tiles on the roof, some gently rounded rectangles, leaning to the left, with hundreds of round windows, Some with too much ink, some with not enough. I love them SO much I could cry. This little street of different houses from different children. Each one telling the story of the child. Some meticulous and careful, two or three perfect samples, others, making dozens of them, scarcely touching the paper before being whisked up and rolled over again to within an inch of their lives.

By 3.30 I was filthy, so were they, I am DEFINITELY going to get parents complaining.

But I was happier than I’ve been for days. Took me till 4.45 to clean up.

Still not very well. But now have sense of perspective. Thanks Year 1.