Weird: The strange, unusual and surreal

There’s a lot of weirdness that has shaped my life, ultimately influencing the creative work I produce: Dad constructing non-conventional furniture, Psychology Today and National Geographic magazines and last but not least the Surrealists.

I have written about my father before. My blog Luggage had a photo of him strapping a pile of furniture four feet high onto the roof of the blue Buick during our family vacation. This in and of itself was weird and almost could have been likened to a mobile assemblage artwork. Much of the furniture that he brought home from that trip was eventually transformed. Wood was stripped, revarnished or painted and chairs were caned with loving hands.

About ten years later, Dad (a Presbyterian minister) went above and beyond, and decided to dismantle a church organ (not from our church) with all its bells and whistles and reassemble it in a spare bedroom in our house. My guess is he had caught wind of the instrument in need of a home through his professional connections.

Now this activity could have been deemed a bit weird, it was certainly unusual – none of my friends had a church organ in their bedrooms but it was ‘normal’ in our household and I revel in that memory.

With the leftover wooden pipes, he made two coffee tables. One of them graced our lounge where the latest issues of Psychology Today and National Geographic were carefully placed for leisurely light reading. Both of these publications I would regularly peruse. I found Jung’s philosophy to be particularly interesting and the photographs that appeared on the pages of both magazines were serious eye candy.

The creation of the pipe organ tables showed me how to use objects in a way not originally intended. Add this to an interest in unusual old objects (thanks to my parents), the inspirational imagery from the magazines as highlighted above along with an introduction to Jungian theory focusing on the unconscious, made for my own unconscious gravitational pull towards the Surrealists when I was doing my undergraduate study in Art.

We have André Breton and his colleagues (i.e. Dalí, Duchamp, Man Ray) to thank for the Surrealist movement established in the early 20th century. The Surrealists are known for their juxtaposition of diverse imagery, influenced by the unconscious often from dreams manifesting in various imaginative creative outputs including: paintings, sculpture using the found object (objet trouvé), collage, film and of course poetry.

Sarane Alexandrian writes:

the surrealists set out…to create new demands on reality…to liberate the workings of the subconscious, disrupting conscious thought….creat[ing] a new form of sensibility….it set poetry at the centre of everything, and used art to make poetry into something which could be seen and touched…

Michel mentions that if one takes surrealist imagery/poetry at face value, that the creative works appear to be weird and random. He also puts forward how these types of artworks resist simple meanings and concrete interpretations. The Surrealists he says:

confronted viewers and readers with bizarre imagery that avoided no fixed cultural meaning or else subverted established meanings….One might argue many don’t accept that life doesn’t make sense…

Thus, it seems that the Surrealists’ audience back in the day and perhaps today as well, had issues with the works because of their weirdness and non-depiction of a known reality - a fear of the weird, Fear of the Surreal, as Michel’s blog post title is called. I got lost in further reading about the Surrealists for this article, definite food for thought, however I became distracted as I began to reflect on my own work, my own weirdness and creative development.

Untitled (Alarm Clock Case) 1983

In my first drawing class at university I was making juxtaposed images such as a cigarette metamorphosing into a pencil. Later in my third year I used a box full of alarm clock cases found at a local thrift store as foundations to create a series of 15 artworks (see example above). These were to be a pivotal series. I continue to use clocks today in my work.

Insect Hotel (Grandfather Clock Case)Manchester Museum 2020

My later assemblage works purposefully make connections between different elements, like visual poetry. They often tell non-linear stories focusing on place and identity. In the case of the Insect Hotel, created during my Artist in Residence at Manchester Museum in 2020, I also incorporated poetry into the work as well and created a collection of insect themed poems.

Insect Hotel Detail Manchester Museum 2020

Often with surrealist art and my own assemblages because the viewer can’t read the works with immediate recognition other than a main object/s (i.e. clock shape) they will not take time to explore and discover the many layers of meaning and connections within them – this also goes for some types of poetry. It’s taking time with a creative piece. There’s no wrong or right way to read something no matter how weird, although one might think there is. Everything is open for interpretation and each viewer brings their personal experience when engaging.

Enough rambling - to finish off, I thought I’d have a go at creating more weirdness, surrendering to the unconscious through automatic writing, one of the Surrealists’ methods of creating poetry. I found this not as enjoyable and more difficult than other Surrealists’ methods I have experimented with (collage and blackout poetry). It was an interesting exercise and quicker to do than the other types. I set a timer for two minutes, with the first two, and three minutes for the last. Here are the results:

1)
what moon bright star
giraffe feet clumsy
sink into soil a sandpit
a dark hole swallow
whole and grains like
timer oh the flowers arched
droop stems petals are
gone as dust flies into the
wind my eyes pop out roll
along the hill on a journey beyond
the horizon

2)
homeward bound dogs run past
the prairie dogs on grass by
trees alone she stands among
men who circle the feet with
dogs barking cars racing down the
long straight road to nowhere
somewhere another she lights a
fire to keep warm opening a tin
of beans

3)
onto the shore seaweed slime
open eyes diamonds shine
red or white at night and day
squint moon squint
can you see through black abyss
the owl fluffs its wings
brown speckled feathers
one is lost floating free
to land in moss and fungi
ants crawl spiders weave
squirrels climb the cat stalks
rodents hide

Thank you for reading, 

Kate J

Sources
Alexandrian, S. 1989. Surrealist Art. 2nd Edition. London: Thames and Hudson Ltd Cambridge Dictionary, 2024
https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/weird Accessed 14 April
Language is a virus, 2024. Automatic Writing.
https://www.languageisavirus.com/creative-writing-techniques/automatic-writing.php 
Accessed 14 April
Michel, L., 2023. Fear of the Surreal.
https://countercraft.substack.com/p/fear-of-the-surreal Accessed 15 April 2024

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The Glittering Prize - Meaningful Things

I have some works of art in my house. Some are on display, others are stored for safe keeping. They are items made by my children and grandchildren, presented to me with love and received with great delight. Some are glittery and shiny, others are not, but to me these special gifts are treasured prizes which fill me with joy. Being a grandparent is a little easier than being a parent, I have found, as the grandchildren usually – not always – go home, and I don’t have full responsibility for making important decisions about them. My glittering prizes are the children themselves, though if there is something precious, it is the teaspoon fashioned from tinfoil by my son when we forgot to take one on a picnic. It has a space in my display cabinet of meaningful things.

I was watching and listening to Sir Keir Starmer’s speech on TV at the recent Labour party conference. I was horrified to see someone get to him and pour gloopy looking glitter over his head and shoulders. Luckily, it was harmless, but how on earth did he get through security? He could have had a knife, a gun, anything. For one tiny moment, as the person was removed and Sir Keir removed his jacket, I wondered if the whole thing had been staged. I soon dismissed that thought. Not a glittering prize but a worrying moment.

One of my favourite modern day poet / writers is Lemn Sissay, MBE, former Chancellor of Manchester University. In 2021 he was appointed OBE for services to literature and charity. Last year he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. He is a trustee of the Foundlings Museum. Not bad going for someone who grew up in the care system, was treated unfairly by a family and repeated let down badly by social workers and social services at the time. He got justice eventually, but nothing could possibly compensate enough for his early life. Reading his memoir, ‘My Name Is Why’, broke my heart and I will salute his strength of character for evermore. He founded the charity Gold From the Stone Foundation which supports care leavers and every year provides Christmas dinners. His glittering prize is doing what he can to help others. Here is one of his quatrains,

‘How do you do it?’ said night.

‘How do you wake and shine?’

‘I keep it simple,’ said light.

‘One day at a time.’

Lemn Sissay  OBE, FRSL

  

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Great Masters, A Gap in My Education

I have a confession to make.  

I was thrown into a bit of a tizzy when I saw the title of this week’s blog.  Despite being a creative type of person for the whole of my life, attending art college for four years and graduating with a BA in Graphic Design, I am a total ignoramus where ‘proper’ art is concerned.  Art history at ‘A’ level consisted of our art teacher putting on a slide show, naming the artist and describing the image before us.  It scored a very high boredom factor.  My friend and I sat at the back, giggling (which was how I spent most of the sixth form).  The single fact I retained from those lessons was Mr Jackson announcing the title of one famous painting as something to do with cornfields.   My friend leaned across and whispered in my ear, “What? Cornflakes?”  We spent the rest of the lesson shaking uncontrollably (I know, I know – but it was hilarious to a pair of silly sixteen year olds, hell bent on making Mr Jackson’s life a misery.  I think we succeeded) And that is why I don’t know my Leonardo from my Raphael, unless we’re talking turtles, and I’m even losing that ability since my children grew up and became parents themselves.

What do you do when you need a bit of information and inspiration?  You google, of course.  The first thing I learnt as I desperately searched, was that the title ‘Great Master’ could be applied to experts with many different skills and talents, not just artistic ones.  Initially, that was a relief.  I would write about something other than art.  By the time I’d trawled through music, golf and darts I decided that art might be the best option after all.

Don’t get me wrong, I love art (in a philistinian ‘I like what I like’ sort of way) but having missed that early grounding due to the ‘cornflake incident’ I think I gave up on finding out about the great masters.  I did do a quick cramming session on  Michelangelo, Van Gogh and Picasso for my interview for art college, but this was the sixties and all the questions sounded like the interviewer was tripping on acid.  I think my portfolio (consisting of several scrappy pieces of paper with doodles on) was flicked through in a bored sort of way, and as far as I remember art wasn’t mentioned at all.  Which is obviously how I managed to secure a place.  As my journey through college progressed I somehow managed to fit in the practical sessions between partying and meeting the future husband, but, once again, the theory and the meaty facts seemed to slip through my fingers.

Up until the publication of this blog I think I’ve managed to keep my ignorance pretty well hidden.  All conversations about art have involved a lot of smiling and nodding knowledgeably, and all information about art and artists has been on a strictly need to know basis.  The husband is pretty hot on this subject, especially the older stuff, so, in the absence of Google, he is my ‘go to’ information point.  I have to say, he wasn’t particularly helpful this time, suggesting I wrote the whole article and then revealed at the end that it was about the Ninja Turtles.   That's the sort of man I married. You’ll be glad I didn’t take his advice.

 

The Gap in My Art Education

With the shame of my ignorance about 'great art' growing as I wrote my post this morning, I did a bit more googling and then composed the following poem.....

The Gap    by Jill Reidy

  

In my woeful ignorance

I spent an agreeable hour today

Familiarising myself with Michelangelo

His life and paintings

Those wonderful murals

I zoomed in on details

That looked impossible to create

I stared at that enormous ceiling

Followed its curve

And marvelled at a skill

Beyond my comprehension

Beyond my imagination

I studied the hands

From every angle

Those elegant fingers

Tentative yet strong

So near but still so far

That gap, unlike my own

Will be there for eternity

Thanks for reading        Jill

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Pastiche - It's All a Bit of a Miss Mash

Pastiche.  I like the sound of the word. I roll it around my mouth, savouring the feel of the letters. I say it out loud, slowly. I do this for several minutes whilst I ponder on its meaning. This is mainly because, to my embarrassment, I haven't got a clue what it means and I have a strong feeling I should know. I have a vague inkling it might be something to do with collage, but I'm far from certain. 

I ask the husband if he knows what it means. 

'It's a drink isnt it?' he ventures. I ponder for a moment.

'No, that's pastis' I reply, hesitantly, 'I think.'

My grandson comes in as we're still discussing the word.

'Pastiche?' he asks, 'isn't that like a pasty?'

I decide it's time to google. 

'A pastiche is a work of visual art, literature, theatre, or music that imitates the style or character of the work of one or more other artists. Unlike parody, pastiche celebrates, rather than mocks, the work it imitates^.'

Ahhh......I should have known the meaning of this word, not only as a writer but also an artist. I'm ashamed. I don't think I've ever needed to use the word, but then, who can say? Maybe if I'd known it sooner I'd have been peppering all my conversations with it.  I read on. 

'The word pastiche is a French cognate of the Italian noun pasticcio, which is a pâté or pie-filling mixed from diverse ingredients.  Metaphorically, pastiche and pasticcio describe works that are either composed by several authors, or that incorporate stylistic elements of other artists' work. Pastiche is an example of eclecticism in art.' 

It sounds like my grandson's pie definition isn't totally wide of the mark. And nor is my wild guess at collage.

I know I'm going off topic here but this got me thinking about vocabulary.  I've always loved reading, writing, the sound and meaning of words, but I realised when I returned to uni to study for a PGCE after a twenty year gap that I was out of touch with quite a lot of vocabulary.  Admittedly, some of it was jargon but there were other words and phrases which had come into use whilst I was busy wiping faces, bums and noses - that I just hadn't heard of.   I think I managed to catch up but then I had a few more gap years and I got left behind again.  This time I was re entering the art world, which had its own unique language, involving grants, funding, open exhibitions and curators. It was another steep learning curve. 

I might not have followed the brief this week but I've learnt the meaning of 'pastiche'.  I now know it's not a drink or a pie.  It's a start.....

Pastiche: not a drink, not a pie

In the absence of either a suitable poem - or the time to write one, I decided there could only be one song, here reproduced in it's entirety, that could sum up 'pastiche'.  I know this because Wikipedia tells me in no uncertain terms that: Bohemian Rhapsody is unusual as it is a pastiche in both senses of the word, as there are many distinct styles imitated in the song, all "hodge-podged" together to create one piece of music.

"Bohemian Rhapsody"

Is this the real life?

Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide,

No escape from reality.

Open your eyes,

Look up to the skies and see,

I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy,

Because I'm easy come, easy go,

Little high, little low,

Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me, to me.

Mama, just killed a man,

Put a gun against his head,

Pulled my trigger, now he's dead.

Mama, life had just begun,

But now I've gone and thrown it all away.

Mama, ooh,

Didn't mean to make you cry,

If I'm not back again this time tomorrow,

Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters.

Too late, my time has come,

Sends shivers down my spine,

Body's aching all the time.

Goodbye, everybody, I've got to go,

Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth.

Mama, ooh (any way the wind blows),

I don't wanna die,

I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all.

I see a little silhouetto of a man,

Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?

Thunderbolt and lightning,

Very, very frightening me.

(Galileo) Galileo.

(Galileo) Galileo,

Galileo Figaro

Magnifico-o-o-o-o.

I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me.

He's just a poor boy from a poor family,

Spare him his life from this monstrosity.

Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?

Bismillah! No, we will not let you go. (Let him go!)

Bismillah! We will not let you go. (Let him go!)

Bismillah! We will not let you go. (Let me go!)

Will not let you go. (Let me go!)

Never, never let you go

Never let me go, oh.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Oh, mama mia, mama mia (Mama mia, let me go.)

Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me.

So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?

So you think you can love me and leave me to die?

Oh, baby, can't do this to me, baby,

Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here.

(Oh, yeah, oh yeah)

Nothing really matters,

Anyone can see,

Nothing really matters,

Nothing really matters to me.

Any way the wind blows.

Thanks for reading, I've learnt a lot,    Jill

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The True Origin of Surrealism

When Steve asked me to submit a piece for the blog I was delighted...except when he informed me that the title was "Surrealism" (gulp...) So I put on my thinking cap..looked it up on Google... Interesting , it was a poet who coined the word..good start...something about 1920's..right...dreams, abstract visions ? Surely a piece from the late 1960's ? Delved into my archives, and found a poem that would fit the bill...about disco dancing, coloured lights, atmosphere, psychedelia ...getting warmer...satisfied. Anyway, having made my mind up I was discussing the event with Don, who asked in his dry humour " Surrealism? Who's he ?" Complete change of mind in an instant...enter "The True Origin of Surrealism"....

Sir Reyal Issim, knight of old
Was brave and strong, courageous and bold.
Rode to rescue maidens fair
(Especially if they had blonde hair!)

Brave Sir Issim dreamt of fame
Got wounded and now he's lame-
Fell heavily off his horse..
No pension those days, of course.

And so Sir Issim thought of a plan
To make himself a wealthy man.
Took up art with a brush
And finished his paintings in a rush

Distorted bodies, floating eyes,
Apples, vegetables and some meat pies !
Nobody could understand his work
They all thought him quite a birk!

So poor Sir Issim in his time
Never made a single dime.
His paintings lay lost and forlorn,
Till the 20th century dawn.

Found in an attic covered in dust-
Someone thought "Yes  really we must
Exhibit these for all to see
Come one and all, admission free ! "

Well they took the art world quite by storm.
These wondrous paintings once forlorn.
Worth a fortune now , you see.
Signed Sir Reyal Issim, 1543 !

Thanks for reading, Kathleen Curtiss

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Precision Art

It just goes to show doesn't it?  That beauty, creativity and a gentle touch can bring out the best in something as simple as a piece of paper.  Typical traits of a Geisha really.  Shame that, I really don't agree with the principles.

The total of my origami experience is the paper plane and on of those boxy paper choice makers (sorry can't remember their proper name) that we used to make at school.  But the beautiful creations that I saw whilst looking for images of origami take my breath away.  Take a look on-line.  Just type in "origami" in your search engine, and see where it takes you.  Mind you I have always found people who can do intricate things like that a bit of a marvel.  ;-)

This week, I confess, I know little about this topic, and being as previous posts this week have pretty much covered what it is all about, I thought I would write a little poem from the perspective of the piece of paper.

Ode to the Origami Artist:

I was plain, 2 dimensional
Til you took me in your hands
Began to mold me with your gentle touch
Creating something new, as was your plan.

With every crease, a new edge appeared
Defining something more
But even I could not have dreamed
Of what you had in store.

Patiently you tuck and pleat
And fold and crease again
Til slowly, carefully, lovingly
I emerge as an elegant Crane.

You took something plain, 2 dimensional
Bent, tucked, folded, creased
Created depth where there was none
Gave me form, figure and release.



Sorry it's a short post this week.  Thanks for reading.

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Ahem, Sequential Art.

I LOVE comic books. Or sequential art, as it should be known. The term ‘comic’ evokes an expectation of humour, so I’m not keen on it. Many ‘comic books’ can have very grave narratives. I dabble in cartooning, I like to invent little characters and I have illustrated in this style for the Dead Good Poets Anthology. It’s a form I’m very fond of. Comics as a child started me off I suppose, the usual, Beano, Dandy etc. I would copy the characters. Then I discovered comic books, or graphic novels in some cases. One of my favourite author/illustrators is Raymond Briggs, and his book When the Wind Blows, I thoroughly enjoyed but didn’t quite understand as a child. I had previously read and loved Fungus the Bogeyman and just assumed that When the Wind Blows was for children. Well I suppose it can be read by children, I read it. But it’s an adult book with themes of Nuclear war. An old couple Hilda and Jim appear to be completely oblivious to the nuclear war, and although they follow the instructions given to them by the government it is a love story which is tragic. They are unaware that they are dying from radiation poisoning. It’s poignant, humorous in parts but tragic. It was a reflection of the fears people had in the cold war when it was published in the 80’s. I’m sure book shops never knew where to shelve it years ago, but in recent times the comic book market has boomed, partly because of online stores such as Amazon.

Maus is another book which is far from funny. It outlines the author/artist Art Spiegelman. He interviewed his father and created a book based on his father’s experiences in and after Auchwitz. It is a must read, how he handles the subject matter using the different animal characters is genius, even referring to his own use of ‘masks’ towards the end of the text. His choice of animals for different characters is also telling, the Jews are mice, and the Nazis are cats.

I adored and re-read Asterix when I find them at car boot sales. Asterix was a Gaulic warrior from the Roman era who resisted the Romans in an isolated village with the aid of their village’s home brewed magic potion. But I always preferred Obelix his massive friend who would casually carry menhirs (giant rocks) around nonchalantly and batter Romans. Plus anyone who could make eating a whole roasted wild boar look delicious in a comic book has to be a favourite.

I’m not a fan of Manga. I dislike the prescriptive nature of the illustrations. They seem to all have the same style and I’m not sure that reflects creativity much. Although there is a strict comic book style in the works of Stan Lee’s creations I understand why these are kept alike, to maintain the characters created. Manga just seems too prescriptive, and devalues it for me somehow. I’m not a fan of superhero comic books either though.

The costs of printing comic books in the past has always been prohibitive, and stopped many author/illustrators from sharing their work. But the internet has changed this. There are a huge amount of online comics, available, for free. Access to graphic novels has never been easier. But I do feel that they are considerably undervalued. The amount of talent it takes to not only write but illustrate these books is considerable. They offer another medium in which to enjoy a story, we have film, television and animation, the majority of which are taken seriously nowadays. Comic books still get a hard time though. Scott McCloud, comic book author and academic stated in his comic book text “Reinventing Comics”;

“Comics, like other minority forms, are vital to diversifying our perceptions of the world.”

I’ve had mine changed by several. They don’t have to be satirical or amusing to leave an impact. I could rattle on all day about comic books and the many that I love, but I will spare you and share this one with you. The marriage of image and words is perfect;

His Face all Red

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Writing the Olympics, throw the superlatives.

London, a badly surfaced road, sometime in August. Bradley Wiggins, rides a bicycle steadily, taking care not to be crushed by a taxi, blown apart by a rogue backpacker or happy slapped by a local teenager. Overhead, the sound of planes can be heard, accompanied by more planes, beeping car horns and the flash of digital cameras.
This is just any other day, it is any other month, it is any other place, give or take a couple of acoustic details. This is the day we will all live every time we leave our houses in a morning- except just for this month, this somewhat special occasion when we can actually choose not to talk about the weather, gripe about the price of milk or moan about the length of time spent queuing up for things. This month, we can unite over common ground and choose, amidst bleakest of long term prospects, to actually celebrate some achievements.

The London 2012 Games has led a furore of opinion and dominated the news with politicians and dignitaries fighting amongst themselves for photo opportunities and retweets- everyone from Boris Johnson to Morrissey has had a go, and with mixed success. To think that London has been magically transformed in a year is a triumph. This time last August we were streaming live pictures, from many of the same places, but in that short space of time the flames have somehow accumulated- as if gathered in copper petals- and become a symbol of strength, unity and achievement.

The Mayor of London led the way with the soundbites, 'call me jingoistic' he said,

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ConFORM

Sonnet, Haiku, Senryu, Epic, Epistolary, Blank, Villanelle, Paradelle, Elegy.  Someone called Gary has counted 55 types of poetic form which makes me think that there the true number is closer to 555.  Some of these forms are rigid in their requirements of rhyme and metre.  Others encourage rebellion, such as Blank Verse, which requires only metre, or Free Verse which tends to follow no rules and Robert Frost described as "like playing tennis without a net".

As the quote above indicates, playing with form is a sort of game - an exercise.  It's one which is used in schools to familiarise students with form while allowing them to express themselves.  Below is an example of a sonnet written by Millie Shepherd, a high school student from Over Wyre. 

Shall I compare your love to refined art?

Not rendered by hue nor pigment but sublime.

Your composition plays a unique part,

In the remarkable mountains you climb.

You can't be broken by fragility,

Or overcome by the childlike spectrum.

Nothing you create hinders ability,

Instead it thaws with natural rhythm.

Your gentle golden brush of affection,

Hath expressed such bewitching imagery,

If such love would ever hint at rejection,

My entire existence would be a query.

If you only ever drew a rainbow,

It could never detract from your halo.

What Millie's poem reveals to me is the power of such an exercise on the direction of a poem.  I think you can see where the structure has guided the language.  This is no bad thing.  How many times have we started to write a poem only to find that the landscape, or chosen form, has redirected our initial efforts so that our final piece is removed from that first idea, sometimes radically so?  I think that structured exercises, and I cound adherence to form as such, is a time-honoured method of challenging those initial thoughts, of pushing ourselves that little bit further.  It's as if the paper is saying to us, 'Yes, that's an intriguing line of thread but let's see what happens to it when you wrap it about a new frame.' 

Of course, sometimes we don't want to be distracted by the frame - we want to communicate our idea in its first shape, without the twist of form.  But when you love to play with words (and we do love to play with words don't we?) there is a real joy in rising to the challenge of a complex structure, of hanging our ideas about a twisted frame. 

OK, it wouldn't be an exercise week without a challenge or two so here's a frame for you to try on... It's the Monostich form, which means a poem that consists of a single line.  Here's an example stolen from the interweb:

COWARD

Bravery runs in my family.

A. R. Ammons

And here is my attempt:

SWEET-EYE

Your licorice laces are untied.

Right.  Off you go...

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In search of comfort.

I was a little scared to write a blog post this week. Scared not because today is in fact Halloween (insert ‘s if you like- I long since dropped them), rather that I didn’t actually know the meaning of the theme. Catharsis then, is “ the purging of the emotions or relieving of emotional tensions, especially through certain kinds of art, as tragedy or music”, (Dictionary.com). I suppose for me this means writing.

I find writing to be one of those things everybody hates the idea of. At some point or other most children dismiss the idea of writing their own story as boring. Teenagers tell me they spend all their time on the Xbox and as for adults- being taken seriously enough I find half the battle. Of course, I am generalising slightly - there are always certain circles in which writing is encouraged and for those reading this- circle members themselves I assume, I am grateful.

In truth, I find that writing itself can be incredibly cathartic (look, I used the new word). It gives a certain release. It has not escaped my attention either, that a lot of those initial doubters come to the world of writing through some kind of pain or emotion- the lover boy bursting into song, the poems of the jilted, the poems of remembrance...

I don’t find this a bad thing. I had a conversation earlier in the week about people coming to poetry because they think it is an easy option- well, let them enjoy themselves- the torture of balancing that one awkward sound three stanzas in is something they’ll get to in time. When the frustrations are clear from your head and you find them replaced by that one struggling idea- that is when I think it really plays in- the dual release when you finally get it down on paper. You can make this last hours, weeks sometimes, just waiting for that thought to drop in- and it will at some point. That is the other truth I’ve found- nobody ever really gives up writing, they merely break off for a while.

I like to think- that is why I write. I like to develop ideas, move them around, play the film through in my head and then capture exactly what it is that I want to show people. I try to do that every time with my work and more often than not I get frustrated. When I think something is right though- that is what makes it all worth it. That is the relieving of tensions through art, and it is art.

I spent last Friday walking with Lara. A rare fair-weathered October afternoon meant we were going out somewhere and we ended up over Longridge Fell. Out there, I found myself thinking about the Nietzsche quote “all truly great thoughts are conceived by walking”. I agree with the fella. It was nice to have a bit of real thinking time to cast my mind over things.

I was inspired by the day. I am inspired by Halloween. I am inspired by a lot of bloody things to be quite honest- I feel my mind is like a tumble drier of potential poem ideas (not many of which are related) at the moment. It was only on Friday, with the help of a t-shirt quote and some rolling Lancashire hills, that I found where they could fit together. As a result, some of those fragmented ideas are now slipping into poems and boy, does that feel good. Tension well and truly purged.

I’ll try and have a new poem up for next week. For now though, thanks for reading.

S.

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A Doorway to Nowhere

About a month ago, Shaun and I visited the Yorkshire Sculpture Park near Wakefield. Therefore, I thought I would allow one of these sculptures to ‘choose’ this week’s theme. There were many sculptures dotted around the beautiful estate, as well as indoor exhibitions, but one particular piece seemed to linger in my mind more so than others did. Wonderland by Jaume Plensa (pictured on the right) is a single iron door with a light bulb placed above it. Fixed to a brick wall it would appear that this rusty door leads nowhere, but you can’t help wondering...

When Wonderland was originally unveiled to the public in 1995 at Galerie Daniel Templon, Paris, the work consisted of 38 replicas of the door – the number being significant because Plensa was 38 at the time. Each door was like “a black mirror, with nothing to look at behind,” commented Plensa at the time, and the poet in me can’t help but find this appealing and thought-provoking.

I’ve written a short poem in response to Plensa’s Wonderland sculpture. It’s only a first draft and is more a jotting than a poem, but I thought I’d share it with you (as well as injecting a dose of pessimism into your Tuesday).

Doorway

I’m too old – now,
I’ve crossed that line, stepped over
and can’t remember how to travel back.

Where every doorway is bricked up
and every lock has stiffened with age –
a lack of use.

Where rabbit holes lead to burrows
and gardens aren’t a secret.

Where wardrobes have sturdy backs
and platforms are whole numbers,

because I’m too old now.

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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