Six years ago I flew from Rome to San Diego for the birth of my niece. Another ‘on the whim’ decision, I was finishing a performance project and my brother Michael and sister-in-law Re were “Deeming-less” on the West Coast for the birth of their first. So I went. What I remember most about the time before Quinn emerged into the world (in the haze of ten hour jet lag) was the pain and messiness (not my own obviously). As Annemarie trawled about the windowless room to pass the time, occasionally perching on the edge of the gurney for a contraction, life’s membrous translucent juices leaked onto the hospitals sterile tiled floors.
It wasn’t a heavenly experience; it was more like an alien emerging in purgatory.
The fluorescent bulbs cast a green glow on the dull colours of the hospital ‘décor’, a pervasive smell of astringent crawled up your nose and stayed for a visit, the resident soundtrack - a mix of beeping machines charting heartbeats, loudspeaker announcements for Doctor’s, the tap of nurses feet, and swish of wheelchairs played incessantly like a Sartre play.
None of this careful management however could change the base, the ancient, forever process of life emerging as every generation before. One simple act nine months previous had assured the entrance of my niece in all her complexity, the fragile and the strong, the ordinary and the miraculous into the world.
Sometimes I say to my mother, when in the midst of my creative chaos (SLIGHTLY melodramatically I must admit), “MOM. I’m BIRTH-ING”.
Although I would never deign to compare making art (or any growth process) to making babies metaphorically there are considerations to empathize with. I relate very strongly to the description above in the context of developing work.
Namely making things can be messy; emotionally, physically, socially.
And making things can be (and often is) painful.
AND making things in this modern world can seem excruciatingly extra-terrestrial.
Sometimes it is difficult when conceiving something to know where it is going to go. Because of this you are constantly subject to the firing line (not to mention self-judgment).
I am in the midst of two very large creative projects, my first published book, “Body Earth” and developing a new concept for filmmaking which (I hope) ultimately will make the world the better place. That is what I wish my legacy to be.
Oh but Mary Mother of Buddha, it can be exhausting in as much as exhilarating.
You are one person led by hope. Hope that it is not a false pregnancy. That your ideas will have life. For that, you risk all.
The ultimate is that your ‘art’ will emerge and grow into something beautiful, transformative and life-affirmative. But there are no guarantees. Sometimes seeds yields weeds, or attract slugs for that matter. So you continue, changing formulas, trying new things.
In the meantime I am reminded of the potential in all small things as I witness Quinn becoming her own extraordinary and magical person. And for that I give thanks and forge on.
The sky crawled around me in a hue of persistent grey as the damp atmosphere attempted entry forcibly in between my layers of gypsy scarves and menagerie of vest. Red wool cap pulled tightly around my ears and the sound of jangling heralds my house keys as I dig around in the abyss of my purse whilst smells of malt tempt my nostrils.
Another summer day in Pollokshields.
They were upon me before I realized it. About ten of them of varied heights and widths. Puberty has not yet made its call to the total – although all under the age of twelve, some are nearly my size. Always traveling about in this pack, in the same way boys have for generations.
“Hey Fair-ie” says the Leader
“Hi boys” I reply
“HEY if you’re a Fairie, FLY”
“Yeah, fly, fly” chime in the rest.
Oh this tickles me tremendously, my shoulders rise and head tilts back as I laugh smiling at them.
“You can’t handle the flying” I retort back Jack Nicolson style.
“Come on Faiii-rriiiee, fly FLY… “ they collectively chant.
“Oh I’ve been flying ALL DAY and I’m so KNACKERED”
“If you’re a Fairie FLY!” and so this game continues for a few minutes until something else captures their attention and they’re off as soon as they had swooped in.
Last year, on a whim, at a neighbourhood cleanup day I dressed up like a Fairie to brighten things up. The weather was awful; rain in parallel, smir so pervasive you could bottle and drink it. To cheer on the dedicated souls who persisted in the community activity I dipped into my costume cupboard and SHE emerged. I had no idea such a simple action would have such an effect. At the end of the day I think we all want to believe in that wee bit of magic.
I captured the imagination of those boys, and it would appear that somehow I still have it.
“Capturing the imagination” it’s a game that is happening all the time. Most of our lives are mechanical. We live the majority of our days physically doing one thing, but mentally preparing, living, or imagining something else. There are an infinite amount of things to imagine. The media of course is the greatest churner of our dreams. I’m in that “business” to.
Incidentally these boys have already been earmarked (at the age of ten) as troublemakers. True enough (I’ve heard) some vandalism has been associated with the group and I have seen some of them smoking behind the bushes in the park. Equally I’ve witnessed them playing a rousing game of hide and seek which encompasses the whole neighbourhood. Conversely the generation after them has already been tagged ‘potential terror suspects’.
Already these stories have been woven around them like delicate spider web becoming sturdier with time until they hang like a noose.
I’m aware of this and weaving to, fast and furious (and yes I do get rather pissed off about these alternate projections) another kind of story – magic, potential, love, adventure – because I am in this weaving business to and determined to capture the imaginations first and strongest.
I saw a podcast on www.ted.com by Sir Ken Robinson “Are Schools Killing our Creativity?” I’d like to ask, “Is the Western World Killing Our Creativity?”
I am in the familiar position of looking at an empty bank account. Is this because I haven’t been ‘working’? Well not traditionally. Do I get paid for most? Nope. Yet I am in a constant state of infusing my life and the world with ‘my crafts’. A friend once said to me “well money is not important to you”. The fact is I LOVE money. I love money like chocolate cake. I don’t have this sense of holding onto it. I enjoy my life; I give to charity, aim to be generous.
I was at the Glasgow Film Theatre recently to discuss the community cinemas initiative. This is a great thing. At one time Glasgow had more theatres per capita then anywhere in Europe; we need more common meeting spaces.
What is fascinating is how the GFT (like many) is being challenged to meet funding requirements.
It is what I term ‘victim based’ funding wherein we (community) must articulate what ‘group’ most needs attention – disabled, single mothers, old folks…? Absurd. If we expect to be ‘One Scotland’ -‘One world’ -we must stop labeling. I believe in specialist organizations, like Independance (dance organization for people with disabilities). However if we are looking to create resources for the WHOLE, then ‘tags’ undermine the inherent holism.
The other element missing is ‘excellence’. We talk about access, linking to celebrity events - what about cultivating genius? If we were to offer violin workshops to the community we would not anticipate them to be virtuosos after. There is benefit to the introduction, but its potential will always be limited.
This aspect of supporting vision is difficult. Our funding agencies should fill this gap. Unfortunately the application process often serves as a barrier. Someone said to me, “They (artists) need to understand that is their job”. Is it? I don’t know. I just want to make the work. It is easier for me to sell things on eBay.
There is an arts hierarchy with performance at the base. This has to do with the inherent commodification of the arts. Also recognizing the craft (everyone can sing, dance, tell stories) is difficult at times. And yet in its purity performance is completely selfless. Because performance can’t be owned, it is passed on via the emotion/memory of the witnesses.
A study done years ago found that actors, nuns and librarians are the least likely to have Alzheimer’s disease. I can believe this. There is a spiritual component to being a performing artist. The best actors have an extraordinary capacity to feel compassion for others, which they channel through themselves into their roles.
I choose ‘creativity’ over ‘business’. And because of that I am not exactly sure how I am going to pay my bills this month. The truth is, if I have to sell my house and live on the street I will. I’ll sing and dance all the way. As I feel it, this is what is needed most in the world.
I have a confession; after 8 years on British soil I have become complicit in the cult of “X”.
I refer not to “x marks the spot”, nor Madame Defarge styled knitted “X curses”, or even the “X-Factor” (both in Pop programs and chromosomal terms).
But rather that subversive “X” that finds itself at the end of every text and email.
Yes.
Smooches.
I recall 8 years ago upon arriving HERE I was quickly inundated with text messages from new friends with the offending “xx” on the end. These were individuals, whilst I found lovely, were hardly (well for the most part) individuals with whom I would like to lock lips. To my Puritanical (ha ha) American side the bold kisses were enforced intimacy that didn’t sit well.
In the Homeland, Philadelphia, kisses are reserved for birthday cards from relatives (older if you are young, younger if you are older) or very VERY dear friends. Your metaphoric saliva stays intact on personage.
After eight years however I find myself at the forefront of the smoocherama and distribute without thought. I am even a bit taken aback when messages MISS THE KISS.
Now the thing is the KISS is not really about kissing. For me it is an extension of those dear British regional terms of affection like ‘hen’, ‘duck’, and ‘love’. Used in conversational terms they become a wee blessing at the end of the message, like ‘Namaste’ in India.
I often get into debates with (mostly West Coast Scottish) folks over religion and spirituality. It is no blooming wonder. Secretarianism has drilled a hole in the soul of so many here. The reactive answer is to remove what is viewed as the initiating offense – Christianity. Now please understand, I am not Christian, so I am not waving the banner for anyone in particular. There are good Christians, there are bad Christians in the same way there are good doctors and bad doctors.
But I don’t wish to address THAT in particular. I’d like to consider that in the face of vehement secularism we send kisses without expectation, and for no apparent REASON. It is that qualitative aspect of life that makes it a little bit sweeter.
Recently I became introduced to an economic concept termed “The Happy People Index” (HPI), an alternative to the “Gross National Product” (GNP). According to this scale society’s success is measured by how happy its people are. One of the problems with the GNP is that things which bring much suffering (ie. Wars and exploitation) can make a positive GNP. The GNP ultimately has no ‘value’ for people, things, moments that improve and enhance the quality of our life, older folks, individuals with special needs, artists, spirituality, celebration…. unless it (they) can be boxed and sold.
So I am happy to belong to this wonderfully subversive “xx” cult. Let the kisses flow without expectation or reason. And next time why not include a wee cuddle as well?
So I just saw “Mongol” at the movie theatre – all about the life of Genghis Khan.
What a dude. Father poisoned when he was nine leaving him to roam the Mongolian steppes until age 16, constant assassination threats, being caught by rival tribes only to escape again and then after all this he goes on to rule half the known world.
But at the end of the day, just a man.
It seems the defining feature of success, and heroes (or heroines), is not in what you do, but that you persevere. It’s the fact that life WILL knock you down. The question is what choices do you make when you arise?
My grandmother’s family motto was “while I breathe I hope”.
Right now there is a lot of hoopla about the economy, the fuel crisis, and the various wars. Earlier this week there was a bible thumper on Sauchiehall St. preaching hell, damnation and whatever other apocalyptic vision he could scare up. Where does this get us, this churning of the vision of ‘hell on earth’? I mean, what are you supposed to do with that?
This week Scotland is host to Refugee Week. Various events are being staged - music, comedy, football, film and more. The role of the festival is to “celebrate what we have in common and embrace what sets us apart”. Scotland has a fantastic history of embracing the ‘other’. Perhaps it is related to our own imposed exile with the Highland Clearances, or related to ideas propagated during the Scottish Enlightenment, or perhaps we are just a nation of good folks. Regardless, the event serves as an extraordinary platform to create understanding between people of diverse backgrounds.
Some months ago I met a woman from Africa who was younger than me, and had been in captivity for over ten years (in Africa), over which time she had her newborn baby and toddler son taken from her. She had no idea of their whereabouts or if they were alive. At the time of our meeting she was far from a shriveled wreck as you would anticipate (and perhaps accept). Rather she was dedicating her time to volunteering in the local community.
On Saturday night I witnessed a dance performance “Songs of Home, Songs of Hope”, a collaboration between Maryhill Integration Network and Glasgow’s Gilmore Productions. Individuals from Chad to Iran to Azerbaijan to Eritrea and then some shared the stage with Native Scots. It was extraordinary to see and to imagine the stories that went beyond the artistic expression.
We all have opportunities in our life to be heroic. Sometimes it is within us, sometimes it is for a greater good. With that comes risk. And perhaps that is the greatest fear, losing. Genghis lost time and time again, but with each loss came a greater gain. And without risk in the world, life would become stagnant and controlled. There are no guarantees. Sometimes our risk is chosen, sometimes it is imposed.
And so I leave you with another quote I saw on a journal once,
“I fall down, I get up, and meanwhile I’m dancing”.
Sitting in a dappled haze of sun and green, the rise and fall of my belly was only punctuated by the bee-buzz and butterfly-flap. Six hours of garden work, the dust of trees graced bridge of nose, scratches from overgrown fuscia skimmed arms and I am blissfully peaceful in this natural haven. My body feels in perfect synchronicity.
One mile away there is another garden oasis, Queen’s Park. As the police comb the 148 acres for clues to a rape and murder of an ‘ordinary’ local woman, Moira Jones, ducks, squirrels and bunnies unaware continue in their forage.
In the West End, another ‘ordinary’ woman, Eleni Pachou was found murdered in the restaurant in which she worked.
Later in City Centre five women were indecently assaulted within the space of 90 minutes.
And on Sunday I was a Red Cross First Aide at a family event at Chatelherault Country Park, where I had been assaulted 8 years ago.
Needless to say the course of events and my subsequent arrival back at Chatelherault makes me think.
I’d like to say it was the only time I had been targeted in this way. Sadly, no. Fourteen and eleven years ago I was stalked, which came with threats to my life.
I’d like to say I am the only woman who has ever experienced this. Sadly, no.
It is interesting to note that when I refer to violence against women individuals chime ‘men get abused to’. Now please understand that I do not feel that is in any way a ‘better’ situation. However lumping violence against women with that against men is like comparing cancer and drowning.
The fact is women are targeted for the virtue of being women. And this is something we must face as a society and individuals.
I am referring to the demonizing of our bodies. Think of how abusive you are being to yourself every time, EVERY time you tell yourself you ‘need’ to be thinner, ‘need’ to have a different neck, nose, ass. You make yourself unworthy in the world. And this does contribute to a global neurosis wherein because our bodies are not good enough, because in many cases they carry such badness or stimulate impurity in men, they need to be covered and THAT builds a consciousness of abuse. For it is absolutely ok to battle, dishonour something that is bad.
Now in the meantime there are many chats about obesity, unhealthiness. Yes this is a problem- an equally bad measure of not honouring the body. This Protestant ethic of mind over all else and therefore the easy commodification of everything outwith is absurd.
I just saw a play about Hitler’s cleansing programs - his pursuit of the perfect race. I sometimes feel in our modern definition of ‘perfection’ that he must be jolly well happy in his grave as we, by choice, carry out all sorts of personal pursuits of physical perfection - our own little Stepfords.
We cannot bring back Moira or Eleni. And perhaps we cannot heal the perpetrators but we can proactively stop the development of new ones through our own honorable embrace of all we are in this natural physical world.
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