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Every one the same, Every one different.

So I return to these little vests.

I worked out a pattern, as I went along. Gradually getting closer to the original, but not quite there yet.

I still don’t know why I am making them, other than for that haptic reward.

I feel I am tickling around the edge of my work at the moment. I am working on the small and attainable because the large scale installation of furniture in my head is impossible without a studio. So I work on the pocket sized.

However, this does have value. I find that other conversations I am having can be interpreted here.

These vests, intended to be all the same, are not. If the original bought item is the norm, my copies are divergent by varying degrees. I’ve knitted using different yarns, and on different needles. I have used different scraps of ribbon according to what is lying about the house. Some have buttons. One has turned into a dress. A couple have keys embroidered. My original intention was to create a perfect pattern and then get other people to help me make loads. But what has happened is I am absolutely fascinated by the small differences that have occurred along the way: I knit while I watch TV so I change stitches a couple of rows too soon or too late. I decrease for arm holes too soon or too late, or by one too many or too few stitches.

I talk about divergence in other fields, with other artists, and end up creating divergence between my fingers. I’m not getting deep and meaningful here. I’m just saying that because I am inherently lazy about the accuracy of my process here, I have created difference. And because I talk about difference, I have drawn a tenuous analogy. I don’t care how tenuous it is. I like it.

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My friend Jill sent me a message from Venice, telling me she was heading to Florence today. My heart cried out to be transported there instantly!

Now, I’m a real contemporary art girl. Defo. But….
Florence I think is my favourite city. (Except when people talk about Barcelona, then I swap.)

My first degree, after fannying about for 25 years or so, was finished off with art history courses with the Open University. (Brilliant Institution!)
The focus was predominantly the Renaissance. It was only after doing this that we managed to get ourselves to Florence for about four days. I spent much of the time weeping in shock and awe. Yes. Weeping. At every turn, in every building: half way up the steps to the top of the duomo; at the top looking over the city; every time I saw the Medici cost of arms on the side of a building; at every pattern laid in marble on the floor we walked on…
By the time the four days was up I was almost craving a white cube. Over stimulated, over emotional, over excited. After all the reading, the study, the essays, the photos…. Suddenly I could see the people. I could see the hands of the people that made it. Shock and awe.

Have a great time Jill. I envy you. When I get my bionic knee I’m going to go back and climb those stairs again.

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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!