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A song can elicit a much more immediate emotional response than a piece of visual art. I’ve said before that as an artist performing a live song, that immediate response, even if a polite ripple of scattered applause is a heady thing, compared to the slow burn response that has only happened after much thought, perhaps discussion, and even going away and coming back that happens after viewing one of my installations. No applause there.
Both responses are gratifying.

I had a conversation with someone about the army greatcoat I embroidered… We talked about her grandfather, she talked about him being far from home and how he never came back, and how he was missed, the effect he had had on his family… She wept openly, and I joined in.

I was told off by a ten year old. The children’s clothes I had embroidered with hand marks were viewed as jolly representations of other children by her classmates. On the way out of the room she frowned at me and said “I don’t think these are happy children AT ALL!” and stomped out.

On the same installation someone picked out a piece of work that had never been remarked upon by anyone else. It was the piece that did not have a hand mark, but a series of stitched concentric circles, as targets for prodding. As she spoke, she held her hands against the top of her chest, protecting herself from further prods.

The bra that I made with bandages on was a quiet item, and hung among the others. I always let viewers handle my work. This piece was lifted, and stroked, let down, stilled, then walked away from. A crumpled tissue came out from a pocket, a tear was wiped. A deep breath was taken. Life carried on as normal.

These emotional responses are rare, and I feel extraordinarily privileged to have prompted them, witnessed them, and be involved in them. These are the things that make me carry on. Most of the time I do the work for myself, and I never see this.

A song is a different thing. Music is magical. Before the first word is sung, a mood is set. The right feel is crucial. Sometimes it is good to have an uptempo piece of music to a miserable lyric, and vice versa, it is a counterpoint, it draws attention to, it slows down that initial response and compels the listener to take more care with the listening. But the right piece of music to the right lyric adds more than I can explain. A chord change in the right place can add poignancy. A space, a silence, holds a breath… A driving rhythm takes you right where you need to go. This is what elicits the immediacy of the response. The lifting up, the resolution, or not, is what the applause is for… Thank you for getting us there, thank you for asking the question and giving us an answer, or not. Thank you for holding back the punchline. Thank you for seeing the world in a different way.

Being able to make things, write words, and add music to an installation is powerful. Performing a song I have written is a whole soul activity. It takes some getting used to. It exposes everything. It takes huge courage. But the rewards, when you get it right, are immeasurable.

I have previously talked about avoiding tautology, and worried that by writing a song, I am just repeating myself. But, I think differently now. It isn’t a tautology, it is a torch.

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I often make the comment that I have now rendered myself completely unemployable. It is only partly in jest. I now cannot believe how much of my working life I have spent marching to the beat of someone else’s drum. I cannot believe the Pavlovian response I have to the sound of a bell. It’s lunchtime… you have twenty minutes to eat your lunch starting from NOW! But I’m not hungry at 12:15. But I will be by 4:00 if I don’t eat while everyone else does.

After two years I am slowly shaking that one off. I eat when I want. Mostly.

I also go to bed when I want, and get up when I want. I have discovered that the frequent insomnia is fading. I can now sleep 6-7 hours at a stretch, but its usually from 2am-9am ish. When I was working in school I was sometimes lucky to get 3-4 hrs in total. I am sometimes quite productive in those quiet hours after 11pm. Maybe it is to do with that phenomena I wrote of in the last post, being unobserved and letting my mind wander…?

I can now follow my own rhythms. I cannot now conceive of doing a “proper job” ever again. (fingers crossed I never have to) The workings of my body and mind and yes, including hormones, now dictate what happens during most days (I do have days when I work freelance for other people, but they are not too intrusive – I do recognise that some money has to be earned!).

Yesterday I had a bee in my bonnet about a proposal that had been sat taunting me on both my physical and virtual desktops for about a year. I re-read it, and decided with minimal tweaking it was still valid and workable and actually would be a good thing to do. So I tweaked, rewrote, re-formatted and sent it off. Just like that! In about an hour it was done, and in someone else’s inbox. My mind was in that place, so it was easy. I recognised that I was in the right frame of mind, so decided to capitalise on it and I wrote two more proposals and sent those off too. POOOFF! just like that. I then felt a bit sick and shaky and had to watch an episode of Big Bang Theory with some toast just to calm myself.

One day last week I did binge housework. I cleaned all the upstairs rooms in a mad fit in my pyjamas before breakfast, thinking that once I went downstairs I would be distracted by something else and it wouldn’t get done.

I know that some people thrive on routine (I’m talking about you Nicki Kelly!) but I’m not one of them. I thrive on whim, reaction, inspiration, and occasional bloody-minded stubbornness. On Saturday, once again unobserved, I plugged in my looper. I was determined to sort it so that I could record my singing on top of all the loops, through GarageBand. After an hour of RREEEAALLLY bad language, I got it sussed. So I spent the next six hours singing, looping, recording, playing. The output, I have to tell you, was bloody shocking. But no one was listening so it didn’t matter did it? It was six hours of totally unselfconscious play. I was in the zone, in a state of flow. I tried out all sorts of things that didn’t work, and a few things that did, but were unfortunately out of tune or the timing was off. None of these things matter. What mattered was doing it. Learning curve zoomed up!

The ability to do these things guided by when your mind and body are in the best possible condition to do so, is a real luxury. The quality of my work has gone up because of this ability to react and respond. One week out of four, as a woman of 55, I am pretty bloody useless. Pun unintended, but I shall leave it be. Those weeks consist of tea, hot water bottles, paracetamol, sleeping through continuously broadcast episodes of BBT, and anti-social belligerence. I let it happen. I try not to make decisions. A couple of days later I’m fine. Productivity increases two-fold, and time is made up. I’ve been reading things lately about the gradual removal of the taboos surrounding menstruation and the menopause. I’m joining in by not editing the above pun. I am acknowledging the rhythms of my body. There are some jobs which have to be done within a certain timeframe, but there are also jobs women could do as and when they felt more able. On some days, a twelve hour shift is not only possible, but relished. Other days are best signed off. An acknowledgement of this in the work place would make a huge difference I’m sure. By saying a salary is for so many hours a month rather than 7 hours 24 minutes a day would be worth doing maybe? Although… does the synchronisation of cycles really happen to women who work together? Would everyone be “out of office” at the same time?

This is clearly a much bigger issue. My point is, that I am now able to strike while my iron is hot. It is my iron, not anyone else’s. If you want to borrow it you can sod off. I wouldn’t give up this sort of freedom without a big old fight… and the person who picks the fight had better check my calendar before taking me on!

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My last post was something of an effort to put things in perspective. The thoughts have continued however. Especially the ones about functioning without a studio space separate from my home. I talk about not having had one previously and tell myself off for moaning. 
Thing is though, my practice is  different now to how it was two years ago, very different to five years ago, and almost unrecognisable from ten years ago…. Having acknowledged the difference this is where I’ve got to:

By not having a separate studio for three months now I have identified where the need for it sits.

It sits in that area between the intellectual and the emotional…

The physical act of sitting… in an unobserved space… The absence of social interaction on a level not chosen by myself. I’ve got all the bases covered there: physical, intellectual, emotional and  social.

I have expressed a need to work today. I have a mental list of certain “real” things that need doing. But the most real thing to me that needs doing is that separateness. My husband asked what I was going to do today. I’m sure he is asking out of interest. But the answer is complicated. The answer concerns not being asked. A rebuke to his asking of the question is undoubtedly rude. I don’t wish to be rude. So I just said something vague like “oh just art stuff” and lay back in bed thinking about what I was going to do.
This is perhaps where the unobserved bit is important… It will no doubt look like I’m doing nothing. The outward appearance of doing nothing is exactly what I don’t want to be observed doing. (Convoluted sentences that don’t express the intention very well.)

Having mapped out the need to physically be alone in the space, the absence of the social is critical.

I doubt if I will get as much of the unobserved time that it will take, but I have to attempt it. It’s a little like a meditative process, a stilling of the mind. I’m feeling a little down at the moment… And I feel crowded out a bit. This seems rude and ungrateful. I do have a wonderful family and I am surrounded with love. It goes both ways. I love them dearly. But I need head space. I need to physically clear the dining table, as a metaphor for what I want to happen in my head. Clear out some of the baggage and the rubbish that accumulates. Not only will I see and appreciate the love more clearly for doing so, I will be able to think about the work. I’ve done a bit of knitting and sewing and drawing since working at home. I now find that it means nothing unless I can do the clear thinking.
So, while the house is empty for a little while this morning, I’m diving in to the dining room/storage room/studio to have a bit of a think.

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I write my blog as much for myself as my audience, possibly more.
When I look back over it I get a feel for what is dominating my thoughts. If it feels wrong, I can address it.

It feels wrong.

I’ve moaned about the lack of studio, administration, money, my health, other people….

Ummm…. Excuse me? Art?

No. There’s not been much of that. I’ve not written about it because I’ve not really done much. I’ve knitted a few vests, then moaned about tendon problems and wool allergies… Blah blah poor me!

No. I haven’t got a studio at the moment. So what? I managed without one for decades. I had one for two years and suddenly I can’t function without? The cat seems to enjoy all this stuff!

Self-pity is self-destructive behaviour.
So I have set myself a bit of a promise. I have decided I need to generally focus on the positive. I have also decided that my blog needs to be balanced and talk more about my work, and moan less. In order for that to happen I need to actually get up off my ample behind and do some work.

So what’s happening now is this:

I don’t know what is going to happen with the vests. I have knitted six to sit alongside the original one. I had a vague idea I would have nine, but as I have no idea why, I shall stop knitting (Tendons! Ouch! Allergies! Itch!) and do something with these seven. Seven is a good number: secret seven, deadly sins, brides for brothers, oaks, sisters, seas… etc.
I want them to stand independently, like many of the garments I have worked with, as if worn, but the wearer absent… These vests are curious. They are doll size, but would have fitted my premature son. They are genderless in colour and shape and motif (I think… Do feel free to argue with that). I don’t know what they are for, what they stand for. I could keep knitting… The knitting part of some fairy tale performance perhaps?

“The old witch knits until her hands turn to stone and she dies…”

Musically, there are more songs on the way. I’m going to try to persuade my band mates to release a rehearsal recording of just one song for me to post up here. I’d like that. I understand the desire to get it right before you launch it on the world, but in the context of this blog as a private link that might be different… We know here that process is important. I also feel it is important to mark a place: at this time, we were here…

I’m also working on a new proposal for Nine Women too, so those of you that missed it in Dudley last July, might be able to catch it later this year. I think it will be a little different this time round. The performance has been accepted into the installation… It sits more comfortably for me now. I’m reassured to see my own development here. I’m glad I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

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I am interested in the concept of cognitive dissonance.

It is a very human condition. We don’t practice what we preach. The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. I can quite happily hold two conflicting thoughts at once. I am quite capable of feeling supremely confident, whilst simultaneously feeling I am completely insignificant and that nothing I ever do has any worth at all. I have the classic little version of me on each shoulder, one angel, one devil. One imploring me to do the right thing, the other saying “Go on…..Fuck it up…. You know you want to”. I am ashamed to say the latter wins more than it should. There have been moments of total self-sabotage. I’m preaching reasonableness whilst behaving like an unthinking idiot.
I am interested in how sometimes what comes out of our mouths is completely negated by our actions. Our behaviours betray us while we attempt to be the better person, holding the higher ground.

For example: I have no cartilage left to speak of in my left knee. If I lost a couple of stone it would make life easier. I can happily discuss this with anyone over a bacon butty, tea and a packet of hobnobs.

I am indecisive. We are indecisive. But I am disturbed by the fact that the media that surrounds us demands we pick a side. Our politics demands we pick a side.
I’ve just been listening to the brilliant Chain Reaction on BBC Radio 4, Victoria Coren-Mitchell interviewed Sandi Toksvig. Sandi put forward the idea that the architecture of our House of Commons perpetuates the two-party conflict system. She thinks it should become a museum, and a new House of Parliament be built, in the round. I do think that our surroundings affect our behaviour. Conversations should be happening, not arguments. I am definitely an old fashioned socialist…but if Cameron has done one thing for civil rights in this country- equal marriage- then he should be praised for that, and thanked. There are plenty of other things to lambast him for, but that has been a great thing, of which he, and we, should be proud. But it isn’t going to make me vote conservative!

There are so many things of which I am ignorant. There are so many things about which I hold no opinion. I think it’s ok to not know? Surely that’s ok?
I am extremely opinionated about the NHS and our education system. I don’t really know how the situation in Syria got so bad… Except that culpability lies in a tangled mess across the world.
I feel I have a voice in education, albeit a small one, and that I have also made a small difference to a small amount of people. I can vote and protest and petition to protect the NHS. I have absolutely no idea about the other stuff.

I deliberately keep my world small. I cannot cope with the bigger issues. I don’t watch much news. I don’t read a newspaper. I become uselessly over-emotional and totally demoralised by my inability to do anything. So as a self preservation measure, I limit my exposure. Other people are more able to do other things, between us all we do what we can I suppose, in the small sector we each feel able to deal with.

I like the idea of the confusion caused by cognitive dissonance. Out of chaos comes odd connections that lead to the barmy idea that might just work. Hold two opinions at once, until the very last moment when it becomes clear which is right. Until then, juggle, turn from one to the other until you are dizzy, change your mind depending on who you are with, be openly duplicitous and talk for opposing sides until you find one side sounding so ridiculous the decision is made.

One exercise I have used in various educational settings is getting my students (from primary to HE) to argue for the side they disagree with. This can be hilarious as they try to wriggle out from under it, but also very telling, informative, and it encourages empathy.

As I get older (I just had another birthday- 55) I find I am less sure, not more sure. I have no idea how the world manages to keep turning under the weight of such stupidity. And in this stupid world, I am deliberately keeping myself even more stupid.

However, I am quite happy. Most of the time.
(Not sure if this is a good or bad way to exist. I’ll let you know if I come to a decision)