every day creativity

Final Words

2008-12-28T20:08:00.003Z

The year has gone so fast, too fast. It's difficult to believe that I have done 365+ posts within this blog. It has stretched my skills, abilities and ideas.
And just like the sea my creativity will go on, but not here. I need to try something else now. What? I do not know. But when I know, you'll know.
Blessings, all the best for 2009.

I leave with what I began with
The Sea is History.

The Sea is History 001

2008-12-28T20:07:00.000Z

The Sea is History 002

2008-12-28T20:06:00.000Z

The Sea is History 003

2008-12-28T20:05:00.000Z

The End

2008-12-28T20:03:00.001Z

I'm planning to finish where I started off, nearly a whole years ago now. I've surpassed my goal.
These will be the last posts of the year of art. It's been rewarding. And I've got this record of this blog to show for my creativity.

Boxing Day in the Bag

2008-12-24T07:17:00.003Z

Boxing Day dates back to past centuries when it was the custom for the wealthy to give gifts to employees or to people in a lower social class.

Contemporary Boxing Day in many countries is now a "shopping holiday" associated with after-Christmas sales.

Xmas Day Come Early

2008-12-24T07:15:00.001Z

It's difficult

2008-12-24T07:09:00.002Z

If you haven't noticed, I've been finding it difficult coming here this month, I think this is because of a number of reasons; I'm nearing the end of the year, I've already passed my goal of 365 posts,It's the holidays and I'm tired.
All these reasons and more have made coming here a chore. And I'm sad about that as this space has seen me through good time and bad. It's been an inspiration and a bind. But most of all it's been here and I've used it to be me. The artistic me, the writing me, the deep and meaningful me, the silly me. And that is something that can not be taken away from me. That's something I've forgotten.

Joy

2008-12-23T11:14:00.001Z

“Joy is not in things; it is in us.”
Benjamin Franklin

Yes I can

2008-12-22T18:00:00.001Z

As a black person I am inspired to know "Yes I Can" and so can you!

Everyday

2008-12-22T17:59:00.001Z

I am also inspired by knowing I can start over everyday.

Inspiration

2008-12-22T17:57:00.002Z

I am inspired daily by life and people.

I'm sure I made a post ...

2008-12-22T17:57:00.001Z

but it disappeared.

Underground Forest

2008-12-19T10:53:00.001Z

They didn't have to bring us here.
Leaving the vast and shimmering world behind
we, tiny men with knotted muscles,
are sunk in a cage,
into the sunless world.
Like wild swans
we bruise ourselves as we try
to fly underground.
The air is hushed like a stone.
With the potential to spark
we rock in this forest of seams.
Nothing makes sense except pain.

Bridge

2008-12-18T19:39:00.000Z

The Palau de Pedralbes again

2008-12-17T15:09:00.005Z

The Palau de Pedralbes

2008-12-17T15:05:00.001Z

Cherry Blossom

2008-12-15T19:27:00.000Z

Passion locked
eternally
in cherry blossom,
delicately
caressing
the bough.

Flowers cling fast,
as their velvety voices
dance upon the wind.

A fusion of
strength and fragility
like the castle doors
weathered in the storm.

Ignite
the fire.
Frantic.
Consuming.
Unbound.

I love you with
so much passion
that it alarms me.
But it is this
passion
which keeps us strong.

Hell

2008-12-14T17:52:00.000Z

Lynemouth

2008-12-14T17:20:00.000Z

Light

2008-12-12T19:55:00.000Z

Mother and Child

2008-12-12T19:53:00.000Z

Good Cheer

2008-12-10T10:29:00.001Z

"The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer somebody else up."
Mark Twain

Barcelona

2008-12-10T10:23:00.001Z

Success

2008-12-08T13:43:00.001Z

"Success is the ability to go from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm."
- Winston Churchill

Diagonal

2008-12-07T18:13:00.000Z

Homeland

2008-12-06T22:14:00.004Z

There is a wasteland thriving
where the maisonette we grew
up in, stood. A discarded trainer
lies where our intercomed
doorway used to open.

This is the regenerated side
of the road. The other side -
as progress is slow- looks
as exactly as it looked
in the days we used to play

in the back bedroom,
taking secret looks through
the double glazing,
longing to be allowed to go
across the road to 'Little Jamaica'.

The paper shop where
we used to take the pop
bottles back and get 10p
back is still there. The Indian
proprietor is still behind

the shelves of sweets,
walking up and down
as if on a conveyor belt,
looking sadder and heavier
but scarcely any older.

Further down the block,
is the gift shop where we
would go to on Christmas Eve
with our saved pocket money
to pick out a box of white

handkerchiefs for dad, which
would be lost amongst
the many in his draw
and a pair of leather
gloves for mum, which she
would never wear.

The Pakistani proprietor
is in the window still,
writing the placards saying,
'Closing Down Sale'.
These two business men

would tell a long tale, if they could,
having watched so many,
for so long, struggling in
the traps and snares and
concrete blocks of Manchester Road.

The Male Body

2008-12-05T21:44:00.000Z

Pearls of Wisdom

2008-12-04T17:00:00.001Z

"It is better to have lived one day as a tiger that 1,000 years as a sheep."
- Tibetan Proverb

Barcelona Football Bus circa 1953

2008-12-03T18:51:00.000Z

Should have been here yesterday...

2008-12-03T17:32:00.002Z

While in Barcelona

Her eyes, small black beetles,
never leave my face.
I feel as if she can see inside me
-what does she see?
Is my black face strange
in this place she calls home?
Her eyes speak fear
as she tries to walk past me,
or around me, without touching me.
I try to look to keep looking forward,
back straight, stride long.
Should I try to smile
or would it be seen as a snarl?

Just come closer.
Just touch me or knock me.
Give me the chance and I'll
catch you by the neck
and not let her go,
not even for air.
Let me sate my anger
instead of it burning me inside out.

I turn my dark marbled eyes
upon her and communicate fear.
My fear of what lies within me,
ready to pounce on anyone
who stares.

Barcelona- more to follow

2008-12-01T22:12:00.000Z

Blackness

2008-11-24T23:22:00.000Z

Black means we identify as Black because white society has
lumped us together, calling us Blacks. But we want to move away
from their definition and use the term positively to assess our past.

Southall Black Sisters

Story

2008-11-24T23:21:00.000Z

Any story can be boiled down to -What does the main character want and what is stopping them getting it?
Can you think of one which doesn't?

Simple 2

2008-11-24T23:19:00.000Z

Simple

2008-11-24T19:00:00.001Z

‘For every minute you are angry you lose sixty seconds of happiness.’
Charles Snelling

Keep trying out ideas...

2008-11-23T13:57:00.001Z

I just keep on thinking and trying...

2008-11-23T13:53:00.000Z

And still thinking...

2008-11-22T14:24:00.002Z

Just thinking ...

2008-11-22T14:21:00.000Z

Sweetie

2008-11-22T00:06:00.000Z

It is shaped like
a rugby ball
but lime green.

Taking off the sticky paper
reminds me of
hot spitting coals.

Once in my mouth,
still tasting of cellophane.
It’s a soft shell round a hard core.

Bullets.
That’s what Nana used to call them,
bullets.

She’d have a stash of them in her handbag.
I’d be passing out with travel sickness
before she’d part with one.

“Make it last”, she’d say
popping another in her mouth,
and adjusting her wig in one swift movement.

Rosa Musgrove

2008-11-22T00:03:00.000Z

The youngest of three,
wildest of them all.
Smelt of crushed velvet.

A head full of flames,
a tongue like a whip,
will of a tigress.

A dancing red wind,
a rainstorm stirred sea.
She wouldn’t be told.

Wads of Tissues

2008-11-21T21:06:00.000Z

My stomach drew me in. Aching.
Metal coated my tongue.
I didn’t say a word.
My flesh was raw.
I knew what it was.
But I didn’t want to know it.
These were liquorice and sherbet days,
bitter sweet.

I wore two pairs of knickers
and stuffed wads of toilet roll between.
I had to grow a little bit more,
be in this world a bit longer,
before I knew exactly what
those smells were.
Within a few months, my eyes
were chipped marble.

Love After Love

2008-11-21T21:03:00.000Z

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott

Double the Money

2008-11-21T21:02:00.002Z

Just worked it out. If I do double the postings for Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, then that can cover the time that I'm away. Talk about brainwave!

Sold For Sex

2008-11-21T20:45:00.002Z

I want to go back to hear
my friends laugh and sing,
to enjoy our house style parties
having fun and being free,
not like this life of shit.

I want to go back to see
my mother, who raised me
to follow my dreams- who
thinks I am working
in a high-class bar - happy.

I want to go back to hear
the church bells ring
in our small village,
where people are warm
not like here where I am nothing.

I want to go back and feel
the cold of the snow on my fingers
and the fresh crisp air on my cheeks
not the permanent iceberg
freezing inside of me.

Frozen Baby

2008-11-21T20:36:00.002Z

Once it was enough, more than enough
to have your body cradled in my arms,
to kiss your head; powdery soft;
your belly; powdery round.
Dimpled smile and tiny fingers and toes,
hear what I cannot say.

For 21 years, I have not held your
tiny body. But the memory is
frozen in my mind.
Please don't think that we forgot you.
Everyday, I have seen your
face and felt your absence.

Something went wrong that day
But no one will say. No one will
investigate what went wrong.
We left you in their freeze. Not because
we didn't want you but because we
wanted you too much.

So close yet...

2008-11-21T20:31:00.003Z

I am close to fulfilling my goal of the year, the whole purpose of this blog; to create a piece of art each day for year. I am so close, about to enter the last month. But I have found that I have slipped this week. I have not been here since Monday. But this hasn't been a week of no art making as it has. It's been chocka block. So maybe it's a case that I have truly made art a part of my every day life and don't have to come here to prove it. yes, maybe that's a big and exaggerated idea, but isn't that the aim.
If you are out there reading this, help me. Inspire me, motivate me, encourage me, to complete this task and get back on track.
I know now that next week will be hit and miss because I am in Barcelona. So maybe I should get those days in before I go, so I'm not behind and then I can come back here for the beginning of December and fulfil this goal the best I can, by every day creativity.

Coasting 003

2008-11-17T23:59:00.000Z

Coasting 002

2008-11-17T23:55:00.000Z

Coasting 001

2008-11-17T23:52:00.000Z

Granddad Tommy

2008-11-15T12:03:00.002Z

An ocean in your lungs,
as a smoker of Woodbines,
you sat, coughed and demanded.
You were a submerged memory
who wasn't man enough to fill
my father's shoes.

But now, my heart chooses
to honour you with a lone
whisper in the dark, hushed,
torch-beam tight as you must
have breathed, in
the buried river of coal.

The seam of something precious
gone, I think of you,
trying to scavenge a little warmth
by touching you. But I know
you're not what
I presumed you to be.

The subtle ripple of time passing
makes strange the familiar.
Reducing you to an object
you were no use to me.
Once again underground,
your tangibility is mined.

The Lone Man

2008-11-14T13:34:00.000Z

Marbled Face

2008-11-13T19:58:00.000Z

I had to share ...

2008-11-12T22:42:00.003Z

Alice Walker's open letter to Barack Obama http://www.theroot.com/id/48726?gt1=38002

This time last year, Parc Guell

2008-11-12T20:37:00.000Z

This time last year, I was there Le Seu

2008-11-12T20:33:00.000Z

Monoprinting

2008-11-11T09:42:00.002Z

Apologies I wasn't here yesterday because I was on a monoprinting introductory course at the Northern Print Studio. It was excellent. Messy, vibrant and nourishing. I was like a big kid yesterday and it did wonders for the soul. If I get the scanner out today, I'll see about posting some examples here.

I love Autumn, me!

2008-11-09T18:38:00.000Z

I should really ...

2008-11-08T18:48:00.002Z

I should really get back into writing for Feb Rev, but I've not been able to read or write about it due to other responsibilities. I'm hoping with taking time out this month, I'll be able to start working on some new ones here.

Where have all the colours gone?

2008-11-07T08:28:00.001Z

The Bluest Eye

2008-11-06T19:02:00.000Z

The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison was the first book that spoke to me directly, as a young black female growing up in a racist society, and what that meant to my identity and my sense of self. This was the first book that I had read that had the main protagonist as a black girl. This was the first book I read where I didn’t have to imagine my self as blond blue eyes and white. Don’t get me wrong, I was proud of my blackness and defending it against the insults to the point of drawing blood from the person who was stupid enough to call me any names. This was the public face, but in private, I longed to fit in, and be accepted. I longed to be white. This is was my double consciousness, my split personality, of being one thing and wanting to be something else. And in my imagination I could be, I could speak with that other voice and be part of the majority of society for a change. But after reading The Bluest Eye, my consciousness shifted slightly.

London, yes really, London!

2008-11-05T12:23:00.002Z

Dusking

2008-11-05T12:22:00.001Z

The River Thames

2008-11-05T12:20:00.001Z

Go See Rankin

2008-11-05T12:18:00.002Z

Rankin, South Bank, London

2008-11-05T12:16:00.001Z

South Bank, London

2008-11-05T12:14:00.002Z

The Last Good Country - Final Version

2008-10-30T00:36:00.000Z

Imagine it is market day.
The cobbled streets are swollen
even though the stalls,
once celebrated for
their sheep’s cheese, jamon
and sardines are almost bare.
Hardy nags, oxen and geese roam idly.
The sun sets into a pinking bowl of sky.
The passionate peasants stand free.

From the square, the single church
bell rings; footsteps echoing
along the cobbles as a lone plane
circles in low from the sea. Between waves,
the sky falls in. And citizens once
whole become bits and pieces flying
into the air. Silence. All is clear and
the priest moves around the fallen
and offers a blessing or a pray.

Refuel and reform, more planes
rumble over and fire machine guns,
close, so close they can target them,
as they run to the trees in the fields;
the fields yielding dead sheep.
Cradled by the sacred oak, a nation
frozen, mouth open in silent scream.
The future is frightening.
The future is close.

The Last Good Country - Part 4

2008-10-29T14:28:00.003Z

Imagine it is market day.
The cobbled streets are swollen
even though the stalls once famous
for their sheep cheese, jamon
and sardines are almost bare.
Hardy nags, oxen and geese roam freely.
The warm sun is setting into
a pinking bowl of sky.
The peasants stand free and passionately.

From the square, hear the single
church bell ring then footsteps echo
along the cobbles as a lone plane
flies in low from the sea. Between waves
the sky falls in. And then people once
whole become bits and pieces flying
into the air. Silence. All is clear,
the priest moves around the people
giving a blessing or a pray.

Refuel and reform, more planes
rumble over and fire machine guns,
close, so close they can target them
as they run into the trees in the fields;
the fields yielding dead sheep.
Cradled by the sacred oak, people
are frozen, mouths open in silent screams.
The future is frightening.
The future is close.

The Last Good Country - Part 3

2008-10-28T08:52:00.002Z

Imagine it is market day,
the cobbled streets are swollen
with peasants and soldiers.
The warm sunlight is setting into
a pinking bowl of sky.
The people, the baseline of humanity, echo
with the finches in the minty water
tumbling down the mountains.
Hardy nags, oxen and geese
rest unhindered. Tapas stalls,
once famous for jamon,
sardines and rich sheep cheeses
stand bare but bright.
The single church bell rings.
There is a lone plane flying
in from the sea.
Wave upon wave ...

The Last Good Country - Part 2

2008-10-27T11:00:00.003Z

Hardy nags rest by the carts,
ox and geese walk untended
past the tapas stalls
which were famous for their jamon and sardines
and rich sheep cheeses but
now barely full.

I continued with setting the scene in the poem. I thought it was important to set the scene , create that picture in the reader's mind as I knew all would change after one significant event.

People were raggy and slim
but walked straight backed
with the warm glow of pride and freedom.

I wanted to get across the idea of these people being of good stock, proud and free at this moment in time. Here I easily fell into the trap of just telling the reader and not showing, or even allowing the reader to do some of the work.
I wasn't feeling it at this point, but I continued as that is what the writing process is all about. You turn off one side of your mind, that critical, minutely editing nit-picking side of the mind and just let the words and ideas flow out, unchecked.

The single church bell rings.
They run for cover at the sound
as one plane flies in from the sea
as almost wave upon waves
of bombs are dropped.
The sky falls in.

Now I'm getting into some action of the poem, and there is only one way to tell it I think; the way it happened. But then reading this back, this isn't the only way. The event may have happened in a certain way but if I'm going to be true to myself and the poem, not just the event, then I'm going to have to make sure every word counts and adds to the meaning of the event and just isn't heavy wood. 'They run for cover' sounds cliched to me as does 'wave upon waves'. I'm sure I can do better.

To be continued ...

The Last Good Country

2008-10-26T08:57:00.002Z

Yesterday, I went to a wonderful creative writing workshop held at the Lit and Phil with Cynthia Fuller. The workshop was concentrating on the First World War and our personal connections to it through our families' past. The stories that we shared were very touching and fascinating. I went along as I have generations in my family who would have been involved in the different World Wars, but also because I have a reading looming at the Lit and Phil, which I've mentioned before here; a poet's response to war. It can be another poet's poetry regarding war or my own. When I got the invitation to read, straight away I knew I wanted to write a new piece.
I've been struggling ever since to create a poem. Really yesterday was my last hope, and even while in the midst of the workshop, I still had my doubts that I would be able to create something.

I think for the next few days here I'd like to share the process of yesterday and how I went about creating the poem that I will read on Wednesday at the Lit and Phil from 7.30 onwards.

The Last Good Country.
This was always going to be the title of the piece, after I read an article about Ernest Hemingway and Northern Spain. I decided once I was alone with my thoughts yesterday, that I wasn't going to write about my granddad and his war experiences. Even though I was in high spirits yesterday, after talking with my fellow workshoppers, I felt I couldn't explore something close to me, as I felt that it could really push me into an emotional downer.

So I worked with my readings and knowledge of Guernica and total war.

Imagine it is market day,
the cobbled streets are swollen as
the

Cynthia brought along two poets examples of writing about their fathers in war. One of them was Michael Longley's poem, 'The Bullet Hole'. Here the first line starts with 'Imagine Uncle , head full of Henryson...'
I thought that first word 'imagine' was so powerful, actually gave him permission to write the poem that I had to use it.

Imagine it is market day.
The light is pinking
as the lazy afternoon sun nestles in a clear sky.
The cobbled streets are swollen
as the villagers and soldiers
search for food.

I wanted to get across to the reader the idea of the time of day without just telling them. But I think I let myself down here as I tell the reader blatantly what the people are dong instead of showing it.

To be continued ...

My Man

2008-10-26T00:15:00.002+01:00

My man with eyes level as the water line,
with the eyes of a grey horizon in a rain storm.
My man with eyes that twinkle with mischief.

My man with the head of an astronaut
with the brain of a whale.
My man, the whale moving through the Atlantic Ocean at full speed.

My man with the tongue of a lizard, wet and long,
with the teeth of a lion in mid roar
with the tongue of a marble statue, gleaming in the mid day sun.

My man with smooth lips like china
with china, pink and cracked .
My man with lips with the touch of soothing rainfall at dusk.

My man with eyelashes of nets entangled with fish,
fish too heavy to pull in but too valuable to let go.
My man with eyelashes clinging as a noose to a silk cotton tree.

My man with the curved back like an oak tree
with a back like the Blackpool pier,
the pier that will lead out to the Irish Sea.

My man with the chest like sand dunes,
sand dunes that peak and flow as the wind ruffles their tips.
My man’s chest of matted hair and warm sticky wax.

My man with hands that are soft and warm like stones,
warm stones that are placed on backs to easy away stress.
My man’s hands with a pulse of hope.

My man with the belly like a hard watermelon,
with a tough outer skin and hollow round to touch.
My man with legs like an octopus with the suction of a plunger.

My man with the buttocks of hardback books.
My man with the buttocks of autumn
with the sex of a violet.

My man with hips of ancestor’s bones,
with hips of jagged and edgy glass
held up to the light and creating a rainbow.

You Said, I Feel

2008-10-25T18:04:00.000+01:00

I no longer love you, you said.

Empty,I feel,

like the cold space
under the duvet
I struggle with
desperately trying
to get warm.

Fighting only makes it worse

2008-10-24T00:33:00.000+01:00

You’ve changed.
He does not reply.
The passage of time
is like a whisper.

Come eat with me.
You did once.
I pull out a chair,
the gesture is left hanging.

Sorry. You never did like
onions did you?
He studies me now
for the first time

with those eyes.
Quicksand consumes
the breach runs deep;
fighting only makes it worse.

Getting a Lift to Town, 1965

2008-10-23T16:20:00.002+01:00

Newburn,
at the corner of Station
and Newburn Road,
you wait under
the glowing streetlamp.
You are dressed in your best,
leaving your witch-shaped
glasses at home. Opening
your face to men
but closing your eyes to images.
A car pulls up, you jump in
saying, “You’re early tonight, Bob.”
He replies but not Bob’s voice.

After the Strike

2008-10-22T08:21:00.000+01:00

After Sîan Hughes

This is a seamless change, and I will learn
to go back into the home without screaming.
It is only right to find myself alone
all day. It is only right to keep quiet
and for no one to know my thoughts. I will adjust.

Already I have gotten used to the sound of my thoughts
squealing around in my head day after day.
It is almost like being empty to me, almost
like the days themselves. I will learn
to close the door, turn aside and breathe.

Coloured Headgear

2008-10-21T11:13:00.000+01:00

Life's Passion

2008-10-20T14:34:00.000+01:00

If you don't know what your passion is, realize that one reason for your existence on earth is to find it. - Oprah

Events Coming Up

2008-10-19T12:12:00.002+01:00

I just thought I'd used this space today to spread the word about a number of projects that have come to pass and are now ready to meet the public.

A few months ago, within this blog, I was piloting a few book covers for an anthology ID on Tyne was planning to bring out called Nine Til' Five. This anthology came about through my work in the Mining Institute and the research around women and work. As we all know this year's National Poetry Day theme was 'work', so I combined the two and worked with a selection of women writers to produce some new work around these issues, 'women' and 'work'. What came out of this process was the anthology Nine Til' Five.
Catherine Graham, Shirley-Anne Emmerson, Degna Stone and myself will be reading from this publication on Wednesday 22 October , from 6pm onward at Studio 1 Gala Theatre, Durham.

The second item of news involves some work I've been doing around the theme of work again but this time with different groups within the North East. Working with Sophie Robinson, the Education & Access Officer at the Newcastle Literary & Philosophical Society North of England Mining Institute, we work shopped with school children, ex-miners and retired women to produce a whole heap of poetry. A selection of which will appear on posters displayed in Newcastle Central and Gateshead Interchange Metro Stations from tomorrow, Monday 21st October, till the end of October. Look out for them. I've got one of my own poems displayed along side the others, detailing my work as a writer, called 'Getting Naked'. You've seen it here first.

Sunset Over Newburn 003

2008-10-18T15:28:00.000+01:00

Sunset Over Newburn 002

2008-10-18T15:26:00.001+01:00

Sunset Over Newburn 001

2008-10-18T15:23:00.001+01:00

Edmonton

2008-10-15T20:50:00.000+01:00

Total War

2008-10-14T13:23:00.003+01:00

The terrible idea of total war - that a whole civilian population can be obliterated - seemed inconceiveable until 26 April 1936, when the ancient Basque town of Guernica was almost completely destroyed by the bombing from the German Condor Legion and Italian fascist planes operating in support of Franco rebel. This was the Spanish Civil War. The image of Guernica is the image of total war.

Thirty-Seven Years Old Today

2008-10-13T09:03:00.000+01:00

MUSAC, Leon, Central Spain

2008-10-13T08:55:00.006+01:00

Autumn, Leon, Cenrtral Spain

2008-10-13T08:52:00.001+01:00

Couple, Leon, Central Spain

2008-10-13T08:46:00.001+01:00

Street Light, Leon, Central Spain

2008-10-13T08:44:00.001+01:00

Demolition, Leon, Central Spain

2008-10-13T08:39:00.000+01:00

Development, Leon, Central Spain

2008-10-13T08:34:00.000+01:00

Stain Glass, The Cathedral

2008-10-13T08:31:00.001+01:00

The Square, Leon, Central Spain

2008-10-13T08:27:00.000+01:00

The Cathedral, Leon, Central Spain

2008-10-13T08:14:00.000+01:00

Getting Naked

2008-10-04T13:52:00.000+01:00

‘Writers end up writing about obsessions. Things that hurt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies wanting to be released.’ – Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones.

I’ve got a blank page. It’s silent, toying
with my imagination. Promising.
I think of words, smooth words like velvet.
Soft tender words like downy- feathered doves.

Other times, black squiggles parade
across the screen, curving around invisible
currents. Words, rushed words like traffic.
Agitated words like buzzing flies in summer.

At some point, warm sultry words
stalk the page taking up suspicious lines.
One perfect line could make it all worthwhile
or it may be what makes the rest worthless.

I keep an eye out for that line, as I give
my heart the go-ahead to strip naked
and dance in the dark with a blank
page and words, honed like diamonds.

A Few More

2008-10-01T19:07:00.003+01:00

I'll be going away again at the end of this week for a week. So I won't be posting here during this time. Hopefully, this will work as a break and I'll come back bursting with enthusiasm and ideas.
We'll have to wait and see as I am a bit tired at the moment after working to complete for a number of deadlines. Nearly finished now, just a few more to go.

Creativity Within the Mining Institute

2008-10-01T00:10:00.002+01:00

The beginning of my lecture - completed just now. YES!
The whole piece will be available at http://www.thefaceofcoal.blogspot.com/ from later today.

The Face of Coal Lecture
Creativity within the Mining Institute
Wednesday 1st October

The aim of this lecture is to explore my residency within the Mining Institute.

I hope to foster an understanding of the creative process and explore the pieces of work I have created within the last 5 months of being in residence.
A miner goes to work each day underground in a mine. The product he brings out each day is coal, maybe a bucket, maybe a truck but it is always coal. There is the expectation that coal is the production of his work. Day in day out, the miner goes to the face, works the seam to bring out the coal. It is expected. This coal is brought to the surface and it then distributed to customers whom will in turn use it to produce other products. The coal is a fuel revenue and for other production.
An artist’s job is similar to this work of the miner, in the sense that the artist goes to work and she will mine her ideas, thoughts, feelings and memories to create a product. If the expectations are there to bring out a certain product day in day out then that is what will happen. This product can be likened to a bucket of coal. If you go to work expecting to produce a bucket of coal every time you work, you will produce that bucket of coal. A product that can go on be sold and fuel others.

But if the artist is being honest, truthful to and trusting in the creative process, then when she goes to work, when she goes to the face, which can be a desk, a computer, an easel, she is not really sure what she will create. She’ll not really know if she’ll being out a bucket of coal or a bucket of diamonds. She’s not sure what she will create. A bucket of coal or a bucket of diamonds, neither one is better than the other they are just different. Art is created and if the artist has faith in the process and herself, she can create a piece of art, something different every time. Something unexpected.

Creativity and Mining

2008-09-30T18:55:00.006+01:00

I've been mulling over what to say for my Face of Coal lecture within the Mining Institute tomorrow, 1st October. At the time, I know it was a good idea when I agreed or even suggested to do the talk, but now the time has come around I'm thinking, 'What do I want to say? What is my point?'

I think I have to concede that I want to get across to my audience my understanding of the creative process. I know a number of people have asked me since I've been in the residency what the end product will be? What will I produce at the end?
I can never answer this question fully or to their or my satisfaction.
I didn't embark on this journey with some great big plan with the end product in sight. And even while on this journey, the end product hasn't become any clearer or closer.
What I do know is that there have been times throughout this residency that I've been so enthused that I've created a whole series of images in one day. At other times, I've spent time just reading and reading, searching for a hook and nothing has surfaced.
What has been constant throughout this process is allow myself to create work 'for art's sake'. The conditions have been conducive to creativity and I've been committed to the process.
As Julia Cameron has said, 'We cast our dreams and desires ahead of us, and as we move towards them, their content takes on solidity. We co-create our lives. This is both our responsibility and our privilege. In a sense , as artists , we both pitch a ball of creative energy and catch it.'
This is the process I 've had the opportunity to play a part with as the artist in residence within the Mining Institute. This is my point, this is what I want to say tomorrow.