St Abb's National Reserve

St Abb's National Reserve
View from my office

Sunday, 18 November 2007

All back to mine, then..?

So, getting the place ready for an open studio event...
I am looking forward to getting new work back from the framers; to getting the house, (at least the ground floor,) all spruced up, to having lots of lovely things, by some very talented people, arranged in the house...
I am in utter disarray, on all levels, but will hopefully rejoin the rest of the human race next week,(always next week.)

Friday, 9 November 2007

So, what was it I was doing..?

It's been a goodly while, since I've ventured up to the school gates:

Not so long ago, I was a regular; A desperado, a loner; a woman on the edge- of society, that is, and not able to see my way to breaking into the hostile-looking clusters, scattered around the yard, waiting for Bea, Henry and Lotte to finish school.

It was not their fault, I realise now- A happier woman ,am I, knowing I was never destined to fit in with a posseof polo shirts, or the chava chums, so, somewhere in between, for years I stood- wallflower of the dance, eager to fit in, to see the circle open, to embrace me, yet always deflated, rejected, returning home without my playdate confirmed.

A little exaggerated, yes, I'd sometimes bribe women to have cups of tea with me- by kidnapping their children, and forcing a social interraction.:

'Speak to me; I've been on my own all day.'


So it went:

The self-torture, the feelings of insecurity lack of self-worth- I revelled in it!

Oh, how I longed for a subscription to 'Boden', wished my life involved more lunches. The more I whipped myself; flayed the skin from my bones, unable to recognise neither a character from 'Hollyoaks' or a Chanel accessory, the further I prostrated myself at the feet of a bunch of females maddened only slightly less by motherhood, than I was, myself.

What posessed this working mother of two? What poison altered her thinking so? Why did it take so long to wean myself from this strange humiliating ritual?

I actually had very little; Very, very little, in common with anyone else, save childbirth.

Severed, now- this chord. My babies past their first flush of academia; the skip merrily, on their way, in the mornings; Their road-sense assured; their image positively devalued by me being at their side.

Remember when it was not so? Remember the flush of pleasure as a little hand sought your own? As you re-buttoned a tiny coat? or shrieked, 'The Car!!!' on that daily jaunt, toward First School.

These days, I can successfully spend entire days without crossing the boundaries of the property, and look back at my regular constitutionals with the same regard my own experiences of school- some content being fun, of interest- sentimentally, too, of value- but mostly just somewhere else to go, in order to be glad about getting back home.

Aah, I see. Doomed to leap into the wheel, again, till she has learned her lessons properly- So, what, Dear Sarah, have you learned, today, at school?

1. Nobody has to like you, and in turn, you don't have to like every body.

2. The answers aren't out there- and nobody else is going to do it better than you.

3.There are rules, but they aren't the ones written on the poster in the classroom.

4. you might as well have a laugh, while you're on.

In the Summer, I celebrated. I clinked, not a few, glasses to the end of my term (never mind the kids!). Feeling like I'd got through something.

I have admitted, since, that no one made me linger, attempt conversation, invite folk for tea- I brought it on myself- for what? For the learning of my valuable lessons?

5. You are fine. You don't need anyone's approval (mostly- I am an artist, and reserve the right to bathe in adoration!)

6. You are fine. Now get on with it.

7. Everyone has got their own s**t. it is just that you forgive some folk theirs because you like them.- (that's one for just me!- make up your own mind)

I'm over this now, like a bad boyfriend- that strange addiction to pain. I'm over it. ('But I saw him on the street, today- he was with another woman...') I will acknowledge a longing, though, to be included in a social group- get a thrill at receiving an invitation, feeling liked, worthy; Even though I know my way of life, my standards and my mythology to be a world away, from this group, whose common denominator is having reproduced offspring.

Does it appear perculiar? Weak? Laughable? That a soul can be cast adrift on such territory? That someone gifted, one might say, with creative tendancies, floundered out there, rather than seeking solace in texture, colour and balance- almost flouting an opportunity to shine, for the sublime moment of being complimented for her sticky toffee pudding..?

I was standing on the dunes, late this afternoon, holding on to a piece of board with one hand, making a thick slick of oil paint, across it's surface.

The wind blew. My fingers were pink, and sore with cold.

The sea boiled.

It was definitely worth the wait.

Monday, 5 November 2007

Interesting experience, last week:
Invitation to dance at a local curry house- a fund raiser (meant I had to go and say I'd do it for nothing).
A good experience, nevertheless, to a world I was sure I'd miss- the geographical fact of the matter being there are only so many performance opportunities, in Northumberland, that don't involve the phrase 'stag do' or 'phoaarrrr!'
I'd have the chance to dance to a non-dancing audience, perhaps pick up a few new class members, maybe a nice party gig...
I doesn't matter how you dress it up, what you wear, or how much you try and dance with your knees together, belly dancers have a bit of a rep, don't they?
I researched my folkloric tunes- wore appropriate costumes- still a fair showing of eyes agog and snarling women.
Cheeky. I do cheeky, yes. Mostly to the women, in fact, who will often reply warmly.
I've never jiggled lewdly at anyone (not just for the fact I'd look a tad sad, desperate, even,) but it doesn't matter- the western audience has no previous experience of this kind of entertainment.
In the Middle East, where the dance is still permitted, a dancer is prerequisit at family celebrations, and often have the same kind of following as movie stars.
(Don't get me wrong, I'm only hankering after low-level adoration, and would find constant attention and fanmail a nuisance.)
I do like a good boogie, though, and want to spread the word about belly dancing (it's common term.) It is such a feelgood activity- encourages multi-generational, cross-cultural relations, support networks and charities have blossomed, as well as being a bloomin' good laugh, and damn good exercise.
The dance is such a multi-facetted thing- all things to all people- I suppose I have no right to tell someone they've no right to disapprove, or oogle (if that's what floats their boat).
As long as no one's hoping I'll stop dancing, or telling me to go away...
I felt...naked under the glare of a greedy pair of eyes (and I'll say again- I'm not bigging up meself- I think any moving flesh would have done) and had to work hard to banish the feeling I should stop, go and put on a big coat, maybe a veil- hide myself in shame because someone's seeing me in a certain way...
(Damn it, I was going to be funny, irreverent, whatever, but have had a rant, instead.)
I stopped myself from flouncing off, saying. 'It's an artform, actually.'
I worked really hard, on my performance- practised and put together a set. I am mindful of the appropriate styles of dance.
I could have jiggled my baps to 'The birdy Song' and would have got the same response.
No, not from everyone. There were a number of folk from my class there, and they did their part- clapping at the clappy bits, and being rowdy- sharing their energy (though not their naan breads).
I haven't reached any kind of conclusion from my experience, really. (Banning blokes from these performances seems churlish.)
I just needed to share.

Tuesday, 30 October 2007

Just an old-fashioned girl

I was at a tribal dance residential course, at the weekend. I mostly dance and teach in an Egyptian cabaret style, but have become seduced by the fusion of belly dance, flamenco, ( any style that comes to hand, really,) that is Tribal Style (or American Tribal Style, if you want to follow one particular school of dance,). I eagerly signed up to a class that promised to give my Tribal a new edge of 'Hip Hip' attitude, to be drilled, for 1 and 1/2 hours by a charming sadist (or was she an optimist? Half my age, 3/4 my height, and 10 times my stamina.) whose 'warm up' left most of us for dead, never mind her 'little combinations'...
She said. 'We'll do the worm. Just imagine you are climbing into a tight tunnel...' She demonstrated. We gamely tried to follow her. Unfortunately, I seemed to get stuck in mine, and had to engage the emergency services to pull me out. That, though, was fortunate for the lady behind me, who needed resuscitation, after an enthusiastic attempt to 'pop'.
I'm just glad she didn't.
My point being, I suppose, that, in my mind, I'm throwing some shapes on the floor, with the best of them. In reality, I'm throwing out my back on the floor, in agony.
I can, really, actually, 'lock' without appearing to be having a seizure, but won't be appearing on a bit of lino, anywhere near you, soon.

Tuesday, 23 October 2007

I had a dream- woke up with the sensation there, behind my eye lids:
In an exhibition; a woman,a critic, I think, or a journalist, was standing in front of my work.
Her face was very close to mine. She was waiting for me to finish what I was saying- moaning about- I presume, arty things.
She said' But, That's what I love about your work, it has relevence!'
I say 'But it has no relevence.'
I am awake.
Dreams sometimes have a magical quality to them, I think; Like being a visitor to some world, with only a 2 zone pass; Places, images, symbols remain mysterious, often seductively so, and i will ponder on a dream for days...
And sometimes they are akin to being told, by a stranger, that your skirt is tucked into the back of your knickers.

Monday, 22 October 2007

First Post

Hello, my name is Sarah; this is my first blog- Okay, not exactly my first; My really, really first was on myspace, and...well, Ididn't enjoy it very much. I don't like to talk about it. Oh, really? Well, okay- I'll tell you:

I set up my own page (lorluvaduck, little old me?) to promote myself as a painter, a dancer, and general all round finger-on-the-pulse networking creative. Without really checking out the 'scene' I joined the tens (hundreds?) of thousands of profilers, who all seemed so profficient at updating, networking...generally being hyperactive in cyberspace.

I agonised for days over a photo, then had to go and have a little lie down, after seeing myself, there, on my little screen, and knowing anyone, ANYONE could go look, and comment...I took my photo off my home page. Baby steps, Sarah.

I was not ready to jostle with the legions of razor-fringed, pouting babes, out there- this was supposed to be a serious attempt to establish my profile as a serious, proffessional painter/teacher of dance. All I seemed to have succeeded in doing, so far, was establish myspace as my untamed monster, fit to air my most groomed hang-ups, rather than promoting my bestest features.

Terri liked me, so did Toni, and Trish. Paul wanted my to listen to his songs, so did 'Bad Blister', or somesuch.

I thanked them all.

Like the party guest in the kitchen, my profile hovers by the crisps, saying 'Hi' to anyone who wanders in, towards the fridge. Folk say 'Hi!' Grab a beer, and go and join the party; which, it seems, (by the flashing, throbbing, disco-strangeness of each profile I'm invited to read,) going on in another room.

Be gentle, dear reader, make comment- I can take literary critisism, but let this myspace refugee in!