Archive for May, 2012
This blog is not usually a place for very personal reflections. Today’s different, for reasons that will become evident.
A couple of weeks ago I set off for my regular half-hour pre-work run. I saw someone ahead, walking. Unusual, at just after 6.00 am – I see cars, other runners (as they zip past me) and cyclists, but rarely walkers, unless accompanied by dog. No dog in sight. The walker was slightly uncertain of gait and a couple of times strayed into the road and back. I was getting closer, and I did think of turning round and completing my run by a different route. Told myself not to be daft. As I got level with him I saw he was a black guy, perhaps in his 30s, with a raincoat and a woolen hat, no rucksack or baggage of any kind. He asked me the way to Sheffield. I told him Sheffield was back the way he’d come, and that ahead – a long, long way ahead – was Manchester. He didn’t respond, and I ran on. When I turned round to head home, he was still heading away from Sheffield, and he looked at me as I ran past as if we’d not spoken a few minutes earlier.
I didn’t do anything. I thought about it, but ringing the police seemed wrong somehow. He hadn’t done anything (to my knowledge) and in the unlikely event that they took any action, it might well be traumatic for him – a black man possibly with drug and/or mental health problems is unlikely to have had positive interactions with the police. I couldn’t think what else I could do. On the other hand, if he strayed into the road on some of the bends further ahead, particularly as the traffic got heavier towards rush hour, he could be knocked down. And if he just kept on walking?
He didn’t look like he’d been sleeping rough, he didn’t look or sound drunk. He looked lost – not just that he didn’t know he was heading away from where he wanted to be, and didn’t change direction when he was told, but more profoundly lost. He didn’t look or sound dangerous, but I was alone, and I felt vulnerable. But I have thought a lot about this encounter. To ask myself if I should/could have done something. To wonder what happened to him. And as so often I ask myself what my mother would have done – and as soon as I ask I know. She would have stopped, talked to him, tried to find out why he was walking out along that road, away from the place he said he wanted to get to. She would have tried to help him. She might not have been able to, she might have been rebuffed, she might have put herself at risk, but she would have tried.
A year or so ago I was walking to work as usual past the Children’s Hospital, as a young woman came out in pyjamas, lighting a cigarette, on her mobile – not an uncommon sight. But then she cried out, ‘She’s dead. My baby’s dead’. I stopped. And then I went on because I was afraid to intrude, to barge into a moment of such terrible private tragedy. I know that Mum would have gone to her and talked to her, and tried to help. It might have been a mistake to do so, but it would have been, somehow, a marvellous mistake.
Mum died on 29 May 1995, of pancreatic cancer. She was phenomenally intuitive, empathetic, generous of heart. She didn’t rate herself, but she ought to have done. There’s a song that sums her up, somehow, for which I thank Glenn Tilbrook & Chris Difford, a beautiful song, written about a friend who died very young. But for me, it’s about Mum – the first time I heard it after she died I was driving, and had to pull over because I suddenly couldn’t see, or breathe.
When she told me that, as she’d been diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer, she’d be moving to an oncology ward at another hospital, and as she put it, a ward ‘full of people like me’, she meant people with terminal cancer but my thought immediately was of a ward full of people like her, full of loving, intuitive, generous, warm, intelligent, profoundly good people. If I allow myself to riff on that thought for a while, it makes me smile – I envisage the nursing staff being brought cups of tea, being listened to, by people who prefer taking care of other people than being taken care of. I envisage the weaker, sicker patients being cared for by the stronger ones, so that no one’s need for pain relief or a drink, or just someone to talk to, goes unnoticed or unmet. Some fantastic place, indeed.
Real goodness is hard to convey without sentimentality or sanctimony. It comes down to two things, I think, integrity and empathy. If we can live in the world with those qualities we will live good lives, however numerous our failures and deficiencies. Mum had both, in abundance.
‘Her love was life and happiness and in her steps I trace
The way to live a better life
In some fantastic place’
Cecily Hallett, 8 January 1930-29 May 1995.
I miss her. Always will.
Some Fantastic Place lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., EMI Music Publishing
Fascinating piece on place and memory from Annie Harrison
Originally posted on cities@manchester:
Guest blog by Annie Harrison.
This article draws on the work Annie is doing for her MA by Research in Art Practice at MIRIAD, Manchester Metropolitan University and an associated artists’ residency at Lime, an arts and health organization. Annie also works as a Project Assistant in the School of Medicine at the University of Manchester.
My art practice is concerned with place and memory. Both contribute to our sense of belonging, which in its turn plays a part in social cohesion. I am particularly interested in how memory is affected by the loss of place, and how the visual arts can aid memory in a rapidly changing urban environment. In my MA, I am researching the site of the recently redeveloped Central Manchester Hospitals and working with hospital staff to recover what the Swiss artist Christian Boltanski calls ‘small memories’, the memories of ordinary people.
I’ve been involved in the visual arts for a long time now. First, through working at the – now largely demolished – Psalter Lane Art College site of Hallam University, and subsequently as a member of the board of trustees for S1 Artspace. I didn’t anticipate that working with physicists and astronomers would give me another, equally rewarding, chance to engage with artists and creativity.
Some years back, a colleague in the department sent an email round, asking if anyone else, like him, was doing creative things in their spare time. The result surprised us all. We’re now in our sixth year of holding an exhibition of work by staff and students – now from across the University – and each year people emerge from the shadows, often apologetically offering their work with disclaimers about being an amateur, a novice, not being sure if it’s good enough to be seen in public, but thrilled by the opportunity to take that chance. It’s an annual celebration of creativity.
It’s caused me to ponder on the gulf that often seems to yawn between the two art worlds that I am involved in. One is rooted in the art colleges’ and fine art departments’ contemporary practice, and ideas about that practice. The other is rooted in the individual discovery of the life enhancing and affirming value of creativity, with or without external validation or theoretical context. There’s no value judgement involved here, for me at any rate. But the two worlds communicate very poorly with one another. The contemporary artists often struggle to value work that has no theoretical context. The ‘amateurs’ struggle to comprehend work that requires that kind of context in order to be appreciated. Both are baffled, both lack the language to mediate their own work to the other.
I love both worlds. I’m fascinated and challenged by many contemporary artists whose work I’ve seen – many here in Sheffield at S1, Bloc or Site (Becky Bowley, James Price, Charlotte Morgan, Haroon Mirza, Richard Bartle, George Henry Longly, Jennifer West, Allie Carr, Nicolas Moulin, amongst many others). And I’m exhilarated and moved by the work that is presented to us each year, to go in display in a physics lab, by professors of physics, sociology or medieval French; researchers in electrical engineering, infection & immunity or cosmology; librarians and technicians, receptionists and administrators.
I’m awed by creativity, because I’m not capable of it myself. I envy those who are. I’ve tried – playing the guitar, writing poetry, sketching – but there’s some essential spark missing. That’s OK, this blog is my creative output now, and in connecting with artists, musicians and writers I can share in the magic. I believe utterly and passionately in the creative enterprise – Michel Butor said that ‘every word written is a victory against death’ and with Butor you know that he means not just words but sounds and images.
So this week we’ll be celebrating lots of victories.
The exhibition is open from Wednesday 16 to Friday 18 May, 10 am to 4 pm, in E32, Hicks Building, University of Sheffield, Hounsfield Road, Sheffield S3 7RH.
Les éditions invenit,
avec L’Odyssée – Médiathèque de Lomme
vous invitent à rencontrer
Michel Butor autour de son livre : “Dirk Bouts, Le Chemin du ciel et La Chute des damnés” dans la collection Ekphrasis
le samedi 19 mai à 16h00
Dans le hall d’entrée de l’Odyssée, jusqu’au 19 mai,
venez découvrir une sélection de livres, d’objets et de photos liés à Michel Butor et son travail, qui montrent le poète dans son cadre quotidien de création entouré d’amis et d’artistes.
Possibilité de s’inscrire à des ateliers d’écriture autour de la peinture, dont le premier se tiendra à 15h00, avant la lecture.
Inscription obligatoire auprès de l’Odyssée, places limitées.
L’Odyssée (Auditorium) 794, avenue de Dunkerque, Lomme
03 20 17 27 40
Fascinating – another encounter between Paris and the British industrial northern city. Thanks to Gerry for posting this.
Originally posted on That's How The Light Gets In:
Passing through one of the rooms of the Walker Art Gallery recently I happened to notice, in the corner, a small display of photographs – some by Henri Cartier-Bresson alongside others by local photographer Edward Chambre Hardman. I was surprised to discover that not only had the great French photographer visited Liverpool in the sixties to make a TV documentary about the north, but that he had taken photographs less than half a mile from where I now live. It seems a little fantastical, the idea that the master of the ‘decisive moment’ wandered along Lodge Lane with his Leica.
But it’s true, as one of the photos on display at the Walker confirms. It’s a picture taken outside Lodge Lane wash-house in 1962. In those days there were still several public wash-houses in Liverpool, where women from the local streets who didn’t possess a washing machine would take their laundry. Most families had an old pram to transport cloths to the wash-house, and in the photo Cartier-Bresson shows the prams parked down the side entrance in Grierson Street. Kids would be ordered by their mums to mind the pram by standing outside for hours.
Some fascinating materials here from Occursus – but the Notation as Art material in particular blew me away.
Originally posted on occursus:
The next reading loop (Wednesday, May 2nd, 7pm, Bloc studios) will be a more experimental workshop, thinking through how a wasteland might be re-thought (and perhaps re-made?) through sound. We’ll be asking not ‘What do we want to see in this space?’, but: ‘What do we want to hear in this space?’ The discussions will feed in to the broader project to develop a live project in a wasteland in the Shalesmoor area of Sheffield.
The session will be led by Adam Denton and Richard Moran.
There is no set text as such for this week; rather, we suggest a variety of materials into which you might like to dip your toes before we start sharing and discussing our ideas!