Threads

 

AUDIOBLOG – Please click here

The Curious Narrative

Hints.
Secrets.
Tales of foreboding.
Keeping the secret in plain sight.

Heredity.
Genetics.
Memory.
Family histories.
Family hysteria.
Everyone knew about Aunty Margaret didn’t they?
No.

Remnants of stories.
The beginning.
The middle.
The end.
But never all three.
Pick ’n’ mix ’n’ match.

Huge assumptions.
It’s obvious!
No it’s not.

Whispers.
Hand-me-downs.
Itching and scratching and never quite fitting.
A child among adults
Never understanding…

Until…

That moment in adulthood when at last the penny drops.
The shoe falls.
The switch is flicked.
Can never now be unseen.

 

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

AUDIOBLOG – Please click here

Ok I’ll admit it, there is a bit of a Goldilocks Vibe going on here. But that isn’t totally out of whack with the thinking… maybe.

But this isn’t yet nasty enough for me to like what is going on.
At the moment we have odd chairs, stitching, fabric scraps. Its getting somewhere, but not quite as I want. Yet.

I’m not sure if the streaks of stitches are too abstract. I know what they are, but does anyone else?
Do I care?

well… sort of… because I hate that whole the-artist-has-to-explain-it-before-you-can-possibly-understand-it thing. That is elitist and leaves no room for the viewer. I like to leave room for the viewer. I like the stories I get told… they weave themselves in too.

Is the fact that these are recognisable, familiar, but slightly peculiar chairs with stitches on enough?

Where am I going to get the nasty from? Maybe the song. The song is coming along…

I have the mantra “Avoid Tautology” in my head again… I must remember to keep my touch light…

I do have another oddly shaped chair at home … four… that would take Goldilocks out of the picture… or maybe let her stay?

AUDIOBLOG – Please click here

Art is not therapy¹

It is more animal than that²

During a rubbish week of illness, death and injustice, I get myself, finally, to the studio.

This is not escape
This is not soothing
This is not relaxation

This is animal activity – this belongs to the fight/flight/fuck variety of responses

So don’t be fooled by the apparent slow and measured activity.
I am angry and sad.
This is the way I respond to the world.
I’m writing and drawing…scratching ink furiously into paper.
Jabbing my poisonous needle into the fabric…pursed lips…hunched shoulders.

I am powerless to prevent the inevitable. So I try to insert it into my work. I attempt to assimilate it, to make some sort of sense. I am not assigning it to the gods.

The activity I undertake is not distraction. It does not serve the purpose of diverting my attention.

This art is focussed, frustrated fury.

It works through; it acts out; it filters,sorts and files; it absorbs the facts and spits them back out.

No.

This isn’t a gentle thing
This isn’t ladylike and modest.

It is hard work.
Exhausting.

But the world has to be dealt with, and this is the way I do it.

¹But it might be Therapy

²Dan Whitehouse told me. He is a wise man

I’m making myself write this blog post.

I have nothing to write about, because ironically, nothing kills art quite as quickly and thoroughly as applying for funding for art.

The chair in the previous post hasn’t yet made it to the studio because I haven’t yet made it to the studio. There’s no wifi there, so “Going Up The Portal” with Sonia Boué means doing so from home.

We are, frankly, sick of The Portal.

The sooner the damn submit button gets pressed the better!

(Any minute now…)

When the button is pressed, we will have six glorious weeks of peace before we hear yay or nay… during which time I will have: a solo exhibition of nine women, complete with two workshops and a performance; A CD to master, do art work for and get reproduced; A recording session with The Sitting Room;  several rehearsals……..

But, although this is all art, it isn’t making new work, it isn’t getting to grips with the thoughts swimming around in my head, that have been hastily scribbled into my sketchbook, just in case they get forgotten.

Sometimes, by the time I get round to it, the things hastily scribbled are no longer relevant… my mind has moved on…

…………..

In another part of my working life, I discover I am learning things that I should have learned years ago. I’m learning in a deep and meaningful way about how other people work, think, learn. I have taught for over 25 years. I don’t do so much now, but the things I have learned over the last six months would have come in really handy and would undoubtedly have made me a better teacher.

I’m also learning that some really excellent art and design teachers I know are leaving the profession, or are close to collapse. This cannot go on, and I don’t know how to help, or what to do. I managed to escape it, and did so with my mental health barely intact. I have recovered, although certain sorts of stress get me too close to that edge again.

And I have discovered that some of us have a thing in common – Survivor Guilt.

This is totally wrong, it isn’t our fault, but we feel it anyway. We have deserted the children when they needed us, and our colleagues who needed support.

AUDIOBLOG – Please click here

To the casual onlooker it is a fairly ordinary looking chair.

It has a story though, like any object that has hung around for a while.

This ordinary looking chair sits in our hall and is rarely sat upon, but is a receptacle for coats and bags in passing through to the sitting room. I’ve cleared them off to take this photo. It isn’t sat on very often because it isn’t comfortable. While all the comfortable chairs have worn out, got saggy bottoms and broken arms, and stained covers and tears in the fabric, this one remains untouched by time. I know that it was probably made in the 50s or 60s. It sat in my mother-in-law’s house before ours. It didn’t get sat on there either, but was an occasional corner-of-the-dining-room chair. Extra visitors were given it, as they are here. Just Christmas then. It has had various covers, most of which still exist under this William Morris remnant. A triumph of style over substance. It is an imposter. It looks ok, but it isn’t. Even the cat won’t sit on it.

It has, in my head at least, the personality of a frosty Aunt. It looks respectable. It is undoubtedly middle class, middle aged and white. It doesn’t know how to relate to the rest of the family, doesn’t know what to do with itself. But we feel duty bound to keep it. The Last Chair.

But… I’m thinking that all of this might make it into something else. It might just become art. In my head, I think it already has. I have spoken to my husband about this, and I think he was fairly noncommittal about it being something else. I think, if I take it to the studio to do something to it, he might miss it. Just like the frosty Aunt, who, after her death, you realise was far more interesting than you thought… and you miss her.