Arts for All

Jennie Lee

Wednesday 25th February marked 50 years since Jennie Lee's white paper: A Policy for the Arts - First Steps. Lee was the arts minister in the 1964 Labour government of Harold Wilson, and it was the first (and is so far the only!) white paper that had been written on the arts. In it, she argues that the arts must occupy a central place in British life and be part of everyday life for children and adults, be embedded in our education system, recognised as an important industry, widely accessible, properly funded, and valued by society.

 

So, 50 years have passed. How far have we come? Mid February saw the publication of Warwick Commission's report on The Future of Cultural Value, which - although demonstrating that the arts are a significant contributor to the economy - also shows that arts and culture are being 'systematically removed from the UK education system'. Under our current government, the Education Secretary, Nicky Morgan, has said that 'Arts subjects limit career choices'; we've watched  Arts subjects being devalued, undermined and squeezed out of the curriculum, and at the same time provision outside of formal education reduced and dismantled due to funding cuts (from a regime of austerity which consistently harms the younger generation). As Paul Collard, Chief Executive at Creative Culture and Education, recently said:

'What is clear now is that young people, especially those in the less affluent areas, are not getting any opportunities at all, because arts... access for young people has been swept away. And it will only get worse.'

Cheerful reading. So, what shall we do? Make some noise! Make some art! DO SOMETHING! That was the call of Devoted and Disgruntled, spear-headed by Stella Duffy. With a twitter handle #ArtsPolicy50 ready to go viral (which, YAY, on 25/02/15 it DID!), the mission was clear: mark the anniversary; let people know why you think it's important; make a fuss.

I think it's important, so I celebrated, discussed and responded with two groups I was working with that week: a group of adults in recovery from various forms of addiction, who I do Creative Writing with at The Living Room, and a group of young migrant/refugee teenagers in South London, who I do Drama with for Attic Theatre Company. 

With my group at The Living Room, I decided to challenge both them and myself, and worked with them to write a group villanelle. A villanelle is a poetic form that is supposed to be one of the very hardest to write, and I thought this would not only give my group a lift, knowing how capable and talented they are, once we had written one, but would also be a nice way of demonstrating that a community group, gathered together for the purpose of recovery (rather than because they had chosen to attend an arts-based class) could be damn creative, that the arts could be of value to ANY community. And they did bloody well, so I'm going to let their work provide all the evidence I need....

Arts for All

We feel as if we're up against the wall,

This generation is under duress.

Art is for everyone. Art is for us all.

So we shall answer our heart's secret call

With a tight grip or with a sweet caress.

We feel as if we're up against the wall.

We know we're got the gumption and the gall

The talent, deep inside us, to impress.

Art is for everyone. Art is for us all.

It's not as if the order's very tall,

We're tired of giving more and getting less.

We feel as if we're up against the wall

From Cornish coast up to remote Rockall

We will push for proper, fair access.

Art is for everyone. Art is for us all.

Inside our schools and every village hall.

Fifty year's since Jennie Lee's address,

We feel as if we're up against the wall.

Art is for everyone. Art is for us all.

Before they left, many of them said they had felt 'lifted' by the experience, that they were 'proud' of what they'd achieved, that they felt 'lighter', 'invigorated', that they'd had 'fun'. Arts for all. It does matter.

Then on the day itself, I ran our Drama group with my colleague, Rob Lehmann, at SCOLA, with the young migrants. Many of the students have very little English, and come from all across the globe. Some have come from war-torn countries, some have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, most are in foster care. All agreed the arts are a fundamental part of their lives. We we had some fun, took some photos, and celebrated the importance of the arts in all of their lives. 

Tell Me on a Monday

I've just started running a project, organised by St Albans Arts, at The Living Room (addiction recovery) and at Mind, and just had some super lovely feedback. Thought I'd be very un-British (talking about things we're proud of rather than the weather, urgh!) and share it with you:

'I wanted to say thank you for the impact you’ve had on the group at TLR, Kate. D-- (counsellor) is full of the great work you are doing with the group when I come in on Wednesdays, S-- tells me that it is a joy listening to the animated stuff going on and how you are engaging zest and enthusiasm (there has been little in many of their lives) but most of all I heard from the group themselves this morning. I asked a simple question – how did it go with Kate yesterday? The people who were at the workshop yesterday spoke about the work they had done for 15 mins – I heard about love and candles with flickering flames and grandfathers carrying children on their shoulders and ….. it was also said in a respectful and appreciative way that is even more significant than the actual words.  You really have made a big impact and I’m only sorry I cannot sit in on Tuesdays myself...'

Welling up.

The Politics and Power of Words

Tuesday 16th was the launch of the poetry anthology I compiled for CoolTan Arts, Diagnosis: Hysteria? Prescription: Hysteria! - the final product of the women's poetry group I ran there last year. The event had the dual purpose of launching both our poetry book and also celebrating CoolTan's new venue. They're still on the Walworth Rd, but have just moved to the other side of the road, and have - drum roll, please - an INDOOR TOILET (luxury!) and other lovely things like windows and a view. 

I'll miss their old warehouse in some ways - it certainly had character - but think I can get over that in the face of not having to use a portaloo. Though I will miss the cat from the warehouse next door, who used to flirt with me whenever it was sunny. Meow. 

It was a great event, with fantastic artwork exhibited, and fancy guests, like the local GP/sexy TV doctor, Jonty Heaversedge. We also had readings from some of the women who contributed to the book. The Forward explains the title a bit (buy the book, buy the book!), but you can also check out CoolTan's newly launched online magazine, CoolFruit, where you can read an article by one of their members which takes a closer look at hysteria through the ages. Oh yeah, or buy the book.

In honour of the occasion, rather than reading one of my own poems from the anthology, as planned (I also read some of my students' poems, who couldn't make it), I instead read a poem I wrote on the tube on the way there, inspired by/in honour of the event. I feel quite strongly about some of the issues that surround our work and the lives of the country's most vulnerable - you'd never have guessed - such as the impact of political policies and the state of the mental health services - check out my article about how funding cuts, etc, are effecting places like CoolTan (after you've read my poem, obvs!).

Let me know what you think....

The Politics and Power of Words

Your 'skivers not strivers' rhetoric

Don't give a shit about our mental health

Disadvantaged for not having a dick

And not being born into wealth

I'm not hiding behind closed shutters

Don't believe what it says in the Mail

I'm doing my best, we're doing our best

Though it feels like you're helping us fail

We know the meaning of work

Have you pulled yourself up from the brink?

Have you hit rock bottom and started again?

Have you actually stopped to think

What your language is doing?

'Cos I'm not a 'hard-working family'

But that doesn't mean I'm not contributing

To this world, with love and integrity

So, I'll write emails like nobody's watching

Read the papers like I've never been hurt

Speak 'til people start listening

And believe in the power of words

Photos of the event by Amy Bradshaw

Art in Hospitals

Throughout the year, Apples and Snakes run a series of Artist Development Masterclasses. I've been to a few of them (they're FREE), as I'm always looking to develop my practice, meet new people and learn from other artists and practitioners - and these events never disappoint.

Today, I made my way through commuter hell to Whitechapel, to the Royal London Hospital, for a masterclass on Arts in Health: WORKING IN HOSPITAL AND HEALTH CARE SETTINGS. The morning was split in two, with the first half run by Rachel Louis of Vital Arts, who showed us some magnificently inspiring projects that she had co-ordinated and facilitated a Q+A with us, followed by some more practical work with storyteller Sally Pomme Clayton, who ran some writing exercises with us, as well as discussing some of her past projects.  

I wrote my MA thesis on arts in health - specifically using Drama in inpatient psychiatric settings. Indeed the title, colon and all (you've got to have a colon, other wise it's not a real title!) was: 

Stuck in the middle with you: 

How can Applied Theatre help build personal and social skills that could assist young people in the transition between adolescent and adult psychiatric services?  

It was really nice today to think about it again and it's inspired and motivated me to try and source funding to actually do the work I wrote so many thousands of words about. I really care about this topic, and - hey - I got a distinction, so the idea can't be shite!

The practical writing exercises we did with Sally were also really interesting; I enjoy being a participant, not just because it's an important reflective component to facilitation, or because I like learning new tools, but also because it's nice to be guided as an artist sometimes, and to think about my own work - my own writing, my own performance - and to indulge in that a bit. We did a series of writing exercise, some of them based on memory and some imagined, and then we edited bits together. 'Cos I'm feeling a little bit impulsive this evening, I've copied what I wrote below. Feel free to mock me that my being impulsive results in sharing a little bit of unpolished creative writing, rather than doing ketamine and texting all my exes... 

  

Hospital. The word hospital to me means a secret. A secret I have to be very careful about telling.

Orange and green. Why orange and green? They're supposed to be fun and bright and happy, but really they are forced jollity or colours like puce. What would make me happy? Cool blues, calming colours, dashes of turquoise, of the sky, of the sea. Something that spoke of freedom. Not primary school bedrooms. Not 'we're making up for it', secret punishments. Not matt and shiny floors, and walls that look wet, and fake glass, so you can't slit your wrists. 

I'm starting to feel well again. When I breathe in I taste air, rather than sickness. I never thought I would enjoy quiet like this. I'm learning to live with the world while it rolls by gently.

I'm well enough to walk to the lake. All the time I've been here I've looked out at it and felt it would mark the epitome of wellness to walk there. I'll collect some bread on the way in case there are any ducks. I'm disproportionately excited, like a child at Christmas. This is my present for being well. 

Feels a bit like the beginning of something I want to write. I must make myself write more. Doing the free writing exercise earlier, I discovered things I didn't even know I thought, and that my imagination was much more potent and fluid than I think it is. 

So, while I go away and muse on that-play-I-simply-must-write, I leave you first with a poem and then with a picture. A truly beautiful and powerful poem about hospitals and health. Written by someone who knew what she was talking about.

Tulips, Sylvia Plath

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage ——
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free ——
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salty, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

And here is a picture not of tulips, but poppies. And a girl I will never forget, who also knew hospitals and for whom health never got close enough. 

These be the verses #2

Staying in the mystical realm of the poetic imagination, or rather staying on the theme of poetry and my recent amblings in this district, there are a few things I forgot to say in my last post...

1) We are doing a bit of a recruitment drive for my poetry group at CoolTan Arts, so if anyone is interested in joining (girls only, I'm afraid) or knows of anyone who might be (friends working in community arts: are you working with any groups which have some creative ladies who might fancy joining our very supportive and welcoming group?) please get in touch! We are working towards a publication, and all levels are welcome. 

2) I also need to share, my week was made last week when one of my lovely colleagues at CoolTan emailed me in the FORM OF A HAIKU! Completely unprompted. Just a beautifully concise message in ancient Japanese poetic form. More people should do things like this. It makes the world a better place.

Send me a haiku

It breaks the monotony

Of shit life admin

3) I have just read Jeanette Winterson's exquisite autobiography: Why be happy when you can be normal?, and had to go out straight away and buy my own copy, so I can have it and lend it to people. I read this passage about our need for poetry, and what I see as the power of the arts, and wanted to share it:

I was confused about sex and sexuality, and upset about the straightforward practical problems of where to live, what to eat, and how to do my A levels. 

I had no one to help me, but the T.S. Eliot [book] helped me.

So when people say that poetry is a luxury, or an option, or for the educated middle classes, or that it shouldn't be read at school because it is irrelevant, or any of the strange and stupid things that are said about poetry and its place in our lives, I suspect that the people doing the saying have had things pretty easy. A tough life needs a tough language - and that is what poetry is. That is what literature offers - a language powerful enough to say it how it is.

It isn't a hiding place. It is a finding place. 

(pp39-40)

Discuss...

These be the verses

A bit behind on my intended blog posts, as per usual, although this time predominantly influenced by the fact that I have been in bed with the 'flu for the last fortnight. I've got at least three things I want to write about, so shall start from the beginning (a very good place to start, as we established when this blog was born), and move through my excitements chronologically. Probably.

On 17th April, I attended a fantabulous writing masterclass with Patience Agbabi, Professions and Confessions: Creative Character Writing, at the Free Word Centre, as part of Apples and Snakes' Artists' Development Programme. Apples and Snakes is the 'leading organisation for performance poetry in England, with a national reputation for producing exciting and innovative participation and performance work in spoken word' (yes, that is stolen from their website), and is splendid. They have years' experience of great education work, and have also champion and celebrated the best of performance poetry talent since the early '80s. I got to know the organisation better when I worked with them earlier this year as one of the 'Young Writers' in Indiana Jones and the Extra Chair, which was a partnership between A&S, The Albany, and performance poet Simon Mole.

Simon Mole

I meant to write a blog post about IJatEC when the project finished in March, but....life.... and now it seems like a really long time ago. Although I think it was sunnier then! Anyway, it was a fantastic project to have been involved in - themed around family, festivities, food and heroes - and I felt privileged to have had the chance to work with so many lovely, talented people.  The performance nights were particularly memorable: more of an event than a performance, with us all sitting with the audience, sharing stories, food and laughter, and writing spontaneous poems. My 'parts' were to tell a story about how my primary school teacher is my super-hero (she is) whilst painting half my face like Spiderman (bizarrely it worked - the directorial genius of Peader Kirk) and to wander around with a feather duster reciting my little poetic piece 'How to Combat Stains and Spills' ("it's not just a stain, it's a particularly dirty stain...").

Patience Agbabi

So, after my adventures into performance poetry early this year (and my life getting a lot more poetic, through my creative writing work with CoolTan Arts and at Munster Rd. since then), I've tried to keep my ear to the ground for happenings in London, and Apples and Snakes have helped me do so.  Also, if I can avoid it, I NEVER turn down a free master class! And thus I found myself, on a very wet Tuesday afternoon, rocking up to profess and confess with Patience Agbabi. Well, write poems. From a character's perspective. Indeed, through a cleverly crafted workshop exercise, I developed - through no fault of my own - the tale of an actuary (the profession) who had run over her neighbour's dog, buried it, then helped them look for it for a week (the confession) - have you spotted the link to the title yet?

I was slightly terrified when we all read them back, as everyone else's were REALLY GOOD. Cue agonizing self-doubt about why I was there in the first place and related Imposter Syndrome feelings. Which is why I nearly fell over when a stand up comic there told me I was FUNNY. Which is pleasing. Particularly so, as little did I know I would return home that day only to leave the house despairingly little over the next two weeks. Apart from those occasions when I tried out, and failed at, being well enough to do things like go to conferences. They just looked like too much fun to miss! I'm not even joking (despite having established that this may be where my next career could be forged). But enough - I shall write about the excitement of my various conferi (plural??) next time. I may even think of a pun or two to throw in.

A fortnight of fun

All in all it’s been a busy couple of weeks, attending some really exciting community arts events.

Firstly, I attended a poetry workshop with Leah Thorn at the Southbank Centre, as part of a series of prison arts events run by the Arts Alliance, the national body for the promotion of arts in the Criminal Justice sector.  Leah’s workshop, Beautiful Sentence, was practical, enlightening and moving, and as well as demonstrating activities she used during her time as writer-in-residence at HMP Bronzefield.  I’m quite an avid note-taker and it’s hard to select what to say in summary of this workshop, as so much was covered.  One thing I did note was a quote from Anne Frank, which I thought carried an important sentiment: ‘Paper is more patient than people’.  The documentary she showed us (also titled Beautiful Sentence) really expressed the ‘liberating and healing effect of creativity'.

Next up, the following night, was another Arts Alliance event: The Argument Room.  This is a project by Ride Out, and is a live, interactive debate, discussing key concerns in arts and social justice.  These are held monthly, and on 20^th October debated the question: ‘Who tells the truth about crime and punishment – the Politician, the Artist, the Prisoner or the Press?’  I watched the debate online at my friend Madelaine’s house, with a few glasses of wine and some unhealthy snacks.

The following night (see, I said I’d done a lot!) I went to another Arts Alliance event at the Southbank, this time in association with Synergy Theatre Project, where they presented a number of plays written by offenders and secure patients for the 2011 Koestler Awards, ART BY OFFENDERS, SECURE PATIENTS AND DETAINEES.  I also looked round the exhibition of art work, of which the quality was astounding (go and see for yourself – it’s a fantastic exhibition! We also had a peek at GOTOJAIL: THE CELL PROJECT (still at the Southbank Centre), a replica prison cell, inhabited by a couple of ‘in role’ ex-prisoners, who we had a really good chat with.

On Saturday (22^nd) I went and saw Marat/Sade in Stratford, by the RSC – not a Social Theatre project, but definitely a play which confronts both many social and political issues, and the power of theatre.  A theatrical interrogation of Marxism versus Freudian individualism, reflecting on the French Revolution, performed by psychiatric patients. With LOTS of sex toys (and the occasional bit of on-stage masturbation and anal rape).

Next up, the Anne Peaker Debate on Tues. 25^th, again ran by the Arts Alliance, which predominately discussed their recent report: ‘Unlocking Value: The economic benefit of the arts in criminal justice’.  It was very positive to hear that their research reported that there is £3-5 economic value for every £1 spent in this area – and that’s before you even begin to reflect on the human costs, not something so easy to measure with numbers.  As good old Einstein says: 'Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted'.  Anyway, they did some video interviews after the event, and I therefore had the joy of seeing my face from an unnecessarily close-up view point on youtube the following morning:

Last but not least, I attended the ‘Get Up, Stand Up’ conference, where I witnessed some fascinating lectures and met some really lovely and interesting people; I won’t list them all now, or link to all the organisations that presented, but check out the conference programme and have a little peruse through the different organisations that attended – there’s so much fantastic work being done, across the country.

I'm ready to get up and stand up.  I might even have a little dance, if the mood takes me....