Threads

Hmmm….

self-absorbed

self-indulgent

self-obsessed

selfish?

Recently these terms have been used about me. Occasionally by me, and also by other people. Also “a bit driven”…

Yes. I am. But I would qualify this by saying I am absorbed by my art-work rather than my self. Obsessed by my art-work rather than my self. Self-indulgent? I’ll give you that one. A bit driven? All I can say about this is that I’m probably hiding how driven I am rather more successfully than I thought. I would go as far as Very… or Extremely. I have no idea why. I just want/need to do this/make this/think this.

I have ideas that stretch into the future, places I’d like to be… sentences that start in my head: “By the time I’m 55 I’d like to be….” This is possibly because I feel I’ve started late, or, more accurately perhaps, re-started late. Part of me wishes I could be saying “By the time I’m 40…” But then I wouldn’t be the person I am, and wouldn’t be in such a rush perhaps? I know I was not in the right frame of mind to be doing this when I was 40.

So. I’ll just get on with it all then, while I’ve got the chance.

I’m sorry if I don’t hear what you said because I was thinking about something else. Poke me in the arm and say “OY, YOU!” first, then I’ll make sure I’m paying attention to you.

Got to go. Things to do.

e

x

Yesterday, I made a mess. I participated in Sonya’s seminar, as she demonstrated her part in Guerilla Gastronomy. I was sat down with a pair of latex/vinyl gloves, a pair of safety goggles and a cardboard box placed carefully on a sheet of greaseproof paper. On opening the box I found instructions to make eton mess (so had to remove goggles to read instructions with glasses on and then replace them) Also in the box was a meringue, and a toffee hammer (hence goggles) to smash it with, a strawberry, to squish with my hands and a small tub of cream and a whisk. I then had to mix it all together and eat it with my fingers. It was delicious, and a curiously sensuous thing to be doing in front of an audience.

On the home front. I’m still stitching. But I’m impatiently waiting for my next recording session. I can’t wait to hear how this next song gets licked into shape. I’m hoping it might be in a good enough state to play at my January assessment.

My research quilt is getting stuffed with interesting stories of childhood adventures, I could do with a few tales of parental stress to add a bit of balance now. and as I watch other people presenting their research to the group I become increasingly worried that it’s a bit basic, low-brow and twee. I’ll be presenting it to the group next Wednesday… so time will tell.

Someone asked me yesterday “Why on earth are you doing an MA at your age?”

Once I had got over the urge to slap sharply across the face, I was forced to think about it and come up with an answer. Other people have asked me why I’m doing it, but not one of them associated the question with my age.

I was about to answer that my age was irrelevant, but actually, on reflection it’s crucial. I won’t reveal the actual, hideous, number here, but suffice it to say I have 2 grown up sons.

I don’t feel this old. And I don’t feel as old as I remember thinking my mother was when she was this age (if that sentence makes no sense, untangle it yourselves). One of the reasons I don’t feel this old is that I am squeezing every last brain cell on a daily (and nightly) basis. I am working with people who are, on the whole, 10-20 yrs younger than me. They tell me things I never knew. The reason I am doing the MA is that it makes my brain and body active, co-ordinated and stimulated.

The by-product of this is that I feel more active, co-ordinated and stimulated. It feeds itself. Education is addictive. Art is addictive. Art Education is seductive. It makes me feel valued, as an artist AND an educator. I’m hooked and evangelical, and I want everyone else to feel the same. So THAT’s why I’m doing an MA at my age.

I’m sure I will feel bereft when it is finished…

PhD?

Evenin’ all!

It’s been a busy week.

The research project is going ok, except I’m now having to scrat around for childhood stories from people… so if you have any, let me know!
I have to present it to my peers and tutor in a couple of weeks. This, while daunting, is actually quite a useful process, as to present it ensures a coherence, a narrative rhythm of sorts, and tries out the functionality and performativity of the quilt… (apologies for the arty bollocks)

The embroidered liberty bodice is getting more intense… gaps between the embroidered text are being filled with flowers… I’m thinking of filling every little gap, restraint has never been my watchword!

I’ve been having ideas about song no 2, it has 2 titles at the moment, and I’m not sure either is right… but there are lots of bits of it whizzing around in my head. I’m hoping Dan will be able to sort it all out and find some sort of underlying structure… he’s good at that bit.

Also, starting to think about my selection of work for January practice assessment, at the moment, thinking about showing the baby clothes, hung up somehow, and the lullaby, but as a separate item. Don’t think the bodice will be finished by then.

Got lots to do. The pressure is on, but I feel in control at the moment. And happy about it all.

Coming up to Christmas in school, and I’m painting a mural of a pretend Bethlehem. Had a lovely morning, iPod, quiet, child-free art room, paint. Bit of a dance, out-of-tune headphone singing. Spotted through the window throwin some shapes. hahaha!

I clicked on the “add post” button with nothing in my head to write.

I’m not in a quandary.

I don’t have a complaint.

Nothing new to see here, move along.

Holding pattern…

I’ve been writing more words elsewhere, and still don’t know what to call them. They’re not really poems, as the structure is a bit well, haphazard at best, non-existent in places. But when i write them they have a sort of rhythm inside my head. They are not lyrics, until they start to have an accompaniment to that rhythm in my head. And when they get that, I usually have to rewrite them:

Make do and mend
Don’t throw it all away
Darn the holes they won’t offend
Please do just what I say

I find myself listening to songs I’ve loved for years with new ears, dissecting structure, to elucidate my own efforts:

Been climbing trees I’ve skinned my knees
My hands are black the sun is going down
She scruffs my hair in the kitchen steam
She’s listening to the dream I weaved today

(Guy Garvey, Elbow’s “Scattered Black and Whites”)

The obsessional stitching has reared its ugly head again. I have acquired a liberty bodice. Why these items ever had the title of Liberty I should probably find out… so the words of parents find their way onto it, the words that give us anything but liberty in our adult lives. The words that stick with us, whether we want them to or not.

You’re not going out like that are you?

The pockets of research wait for stories and anecdotes and memories to give them meat and meaning.

The panic of impending assessment hasn’t yet happened. That’ll probably be my next post, so feel free to skip it.