This Blasted Century

It took over 13,000 steps to reach enough clarity by the end of that particular day.

6,500 lefts and the same of rights.

 

That’s 7 miles.

 

The thoughts that stumbled in time to the boots are impossible to calculate. And they’re beyond comprehension. They’re thoughts that no-one plans for nor welcomes.  If we could map them we would. If we could illustrate them, we would. If we could accept them, we gladly would. The deliberating and drafting of such thoughts only too often evoke sorrow.

 

A drifted word ebbs from the next table and stings her eyes. A word removed from her vocabulary for the second time this blasted century.

 

How are we to thrive? How are we to see this new route into an undrafted chapter? What can she stand now?! What merit is in this staunch integrity? Is she to stand for the rest of her days, or can she be allowed the faintest of rests?

 

By others standards, it’s a pause, it’s a lesson, it’s meant to be. Meant for who, though? It’ll all come out in the wash Granny would say now. Fight the good fight. To thine ain self be true. You only get one life. How many times is my ain self to be tested and for what? I cannae see for what, Granny. Cannae sing for toffee either these days.

I miss those days, of glued hymn sheets and a boy with blonde hair.

 

The sun used to bounce off his freckles in the summer term, his blue eyes finding her across the desk.

Breath

Breath

 

Take one.

Take several.

Hold some.

Give the last.

 

Suppress none.

Acknowledge that silent process as it supports the chaotic workings of our existence.

 

Save the words by putting them under.

Pure

No tattoo, no festival, no big wheel, just me and the town…

.

Emerging from the library and feeling the anticipation in the night as Christmas Eve-like murmurs float past and soft carefree steps tap out a verse.

Yo, Vinny

Today’s thought:

We are living in a time where we will gladly digest countless products pertaining to be celebratory of an artist, deceased. We are existing in a time where breathing artists cannot make a living. We are engaging in an indulgent practice of obtaining and soaking up ‘stuff’, quoting artists, buying their imagery on the latest surface. Filling our homes and world with bastardised versions of originals. We are encouraging this and generating piles of money for whoever owns the rights to reproduce the image.

I was 13, first year English class. Poster on the wall of Starry Night by Van Gogh. I spent countless hours looking at that poster. I went on to study his work for Higher Art Theory. I fell in love with his story. Perhaps that sentiment isn’t the first one you’d feel for such a sorrowfully portrayed individual. But it’s what happened. I fell in love. I am, to this day, in awe of how he managed to live in the face of his demons and in such a creatively productive way. I never, ever cease to feel empathy for him. Well, for that which we assume to know about him.

Consumerism has strangled art. Product manufacturing has drowned the Artist. I never bought anything with his images on it. Apart from art books, the poster on the classroom wall was enough. I’ve toyed with the idea lately of maybe a t-shirt but I’ve not brought myself to do it. Ok, I confess to purchasing a vinyl sticker of his signature for the van….

We’ve taken this artists work and churned millions of items out in his name. For what? Because we need stuff?? Because we love art?? Because we celebrate his genius? What sits wrong with me is that he’ll never gain from it. Financially or artistically, it is a dead bird to him. He is artistic poverty in its saddest form. We fell in love with him a little too late I fear…

Resolved

I started writing earlier but it was a confused rant about not feeling able to verbalise something. It was not published.

I’ve stepped back, had a word with myself and a blether with others and now I’m back.

Im feeling pulled in an artistic direction which I thought was alien to begin with. But I’ve taken a breathe. I’ve allowed myself to be interrupted and now I realise that I’m being navigated back to real process and action. Backwards is not regression, instead it is a positive. I’m re-working ideas which have held their strength and their value.

In MY day if I wanted to work through an idea or something I’d need to leave the studio, walk to the library, cross reference, photocopy it, if I had credit on my photocopy card, cut it to fit my sketchbook, stick it in my sketchbook, wait fir the glue to dry, close the sketchbook, put it in my bag, walk back to the studio, open the sketchbook and then start drawing out my thoughts.. I’m pretty sure that the walking to and from were a positive contributor to the work, the thought process and my well being. Now?? All done in front of a single computer and in a glazed automatonic state.

Hmm. I know what I’m doing tomorrow.

Words of significance

After having enjoyed verbally venting for almost a week continuously, words were suddenly interrupted. My focus shifted back to the visuals and the theory of current situations.  I regressed and took shelter within my own mind, crowded as it is.

It felt almost trivial to consider creativity. It was not, I suppose, the correct approach and almost felt frivolous.

Until Friday.

Two things happened. I stopped holding my breath. And I took myself on a trip to the GFT. We need not enter into a dialogue surrounding my breath. But the Glasgow Film Theatre I will happily discuss. A place of layers and emotions. Of memories and debates. Of tentative dates and goodbyes.

Goodbye Christopher Robin in Screen 2, unexpectedly ripped the plaster off my heart and countless tears poured down my face. I will never tire of the capacity cinema has to hold our dreams whilst replaying our sorrows and joys. As a mother and as an artist, this film wove its way into my brain and sparks of memory flickered in time to the narrative, right to the last beat. Crying may not be everyone’s comfortable chair but sometimes we have to sink into it, making sure we don’t spill tea down ourselves. Tears can release such volumes of worry whilst simultaneously nurturing hope!

I am not here to tell you about the film, not today.

I’m here to talk about artists. Our limits don’t exist , others may try to curtail or fit us into a box, or understand us. They may google us but they’ll never get close to seeing our whole being.  There may even be people who ‘get us’, of whom we are humbly glad to meet. But we will never stop evolving, and will push beyond, sometimes over our own dirt lines. We, the artists and our ideas, are discarded, laughed at and often these days passed over for virtual worlds. But what seems to be lost too often, is that within the artist lies hope, passion and progress. In the artist lies all of us! When a society rises, there will be artists in every corner.

In this week of disbelief and a community striving to simply stand up, I am reminded that my cloudy, rain-smirred home town has always stood up. Many times. And often for a community far away, but whose hearts need holding. The history of Glasgow’s ability to hold hearts  with those who need supported is a story that is one of many towns across the world. But my pride for mine will never falter.

Where there is hope there is strength. Where there is unity there is a future. Where there is an artist, there is infinity for us all. And sometimes, even when the artist is obliterated and the work silenced, there is still a trace! We will never stop stepping forward. We will never stop watching your  backs. We WILL not allow this world to lose its colour and its beauty. As long as there is art, there is life.

Please take a moment to read the link below, it’ll tell you how today’s words came about

http://www.glasgowsculpture.com/pg_images.php?sub=lapasionaria