Me...Art School and beyond.

After failing to graduate in Law in the 1980s, as touched upon in my last blog. I always thought I would one day return to Higher Education and complete a degree as a mature student.

Art, I wanted to do Art. As a child, I was known as the family 'artist'. Not just by my immediate family, but extended family too. In fact, each generation had it's artist, usually a child from the next generation, nurturing... I was my parents', my girls, are my generation's...whether they like it or not! I did pretty pictures in those childhood 'artist' days. Portraits and animals...for family to take away. Art school don't do 'Pretty' pictures...can't handle them, you won't get an art degree 'doing' pretty pictures!

When I was in my thirties, 1998 to be precise, my eldest daughter established and happy in the local infant school, I had a bit more time to myself. I started a local course called Women - job or career? Just twice a week, in a side room at the playgroup where I already volunteered and my youngest daughter attended. These kind of community courses, in my case, during my daughter's playgoup hours anyway, are so good for Mums. Long may they continue. The course was aimed at giving women the confidence to go back in the work force. Instead of it pointing me personally, towards employment, I felt it had given me drive to go back into higher or further education. I had a small, but reliable network of friends as 'fall-back' childcare if Mum couldn't look after the girls. They would be at school all day anyway. My youngest daughter was due to start reception class in the September. I enrolled at a local Access to Communicating Arts course, the college has since amalgamated or closed, not sure which.  Access courses were to give people the tools to return to education after a long break from the system. There were two women on my course, unfortunately it soon came about, that I was the only woman - always a minority. I befriended a particularly outspoken lesbian feminist, one of my lecturers. During my course, I applied to study Fine Art, via UCCA, and other local art degrees. I could only apply to local universities because I had a family - no Slade School for me! Graphics among the courses. I wasn't really interested in design, but it is nice to earn something. Both UWE and Bath Spa have good reputations for Art, and were quite near my home. I could drop the girls off at school and still make 9 o'clocks at either establishment without having to put my foot down, too much. Actually, I hadn't passed my driving test yet, so was having to rely on the local bus service.

I had an interview at UWE for Graphics. Off I go to the Arty Bower Ashton Campus, with my portfolio and some photos from my Access Course. The interview starts really well. A one to one with a softly spoken lady who seemed genuinely interested. Then in walks Black T-shirt Man.  He asked, would I have a problem selling certain things, acting for the client? With the Lecturer Lesbian Feminist whispering in my ear 'Be true to yourself', I admitted that yes, some advertising disturbed me. It had nothing to do with being a feminist and everything to do with being the Mother of Daughters. The objectifying of women, the use of the female body and unobtainable sexual gratification to sell products, well, mainly, to men, the body-shaming of girls. I hoped to change attitudes from the inside. I had been Women's Officer at the college for my Access Course. No one else wanted to do it. My Lesbian Feminist friend persuaded me to fill the post. Black T-Shirt Man didn't like me, softly spoken lady had physically and spiritually, taken a back seat in the interview. 'Let me look at your photos...' He said. He found a particular image of my daughter playing with a toy gun and a doll...we had been looking at gender in lectures and yes, it was obvious. But not posed, I had literally given my daughter a toy gun and a doll and snapped away. I had the image with me, because I had developed the photo myself in the dark room. It was a good finished product, showing my ability to develop an image from negative to final print. He went to town. 'What is this supposed to represent?' He said pointing at the gun. I gave him the facts as above, unposed, developing, etc. He would not back down. 'What is it?' I had no idea what he was getting at. He kept tapping the image, tapping the toy gun. Anyone who knows me, knows that if you back me into a corner, I start to get smart and sassy. Sometimes I lash out. Here goes...'What do you think it represents?' Oh NO! I'd blown it! I thought that was a good critical art response. He was puce. 'It's obvious, isn't it?' He glanced at softly-spoken for moral support. I thought, is it? I said nothing. 'It's quite obviously a penis!' He finally said. Ha! I could hear Lesbian Feminist falling off her chair in laughter...the old 'penis envy'!

'I hadn't thought about it like that.' I said. I genuinely hadn't. It was a toy gun, the model was my daughter, penises had never entered the conversation before. My daughter told me she was pretending to be James Bond...the plot thickens.

'Ok, I think we've seen enough...' said Black T-shirt man. I started to pack my work away. Eighteen years to get here, dismissed by a toy gun. If he had come to that interview ready to belittle me and put me in my place, he had succeeded. Bravo!

When I relayed the conversation to my Feminist lecturer. she was sad. 'I thought Freud had largely been discredited.' She said.

Obviously, I would not be studying Graphics at UWE anytime soon.

Now this goes back to the last blog, this is the truth. I can't remember that man's name, and I don't care. I never want to see him again.
 

Ok, looking at this now, I can see what he is saying, but I hadn't thought of it before, honestly. I guess daughter is the one to ask, not me, she said she was being James Bond, she was 6. I don't think she was mimicking having a penis! But there were ways of addressing this without sounding so misogynistic.

I didn't get on a course at the first stage of university applications. I had to go through clearing.

Bath Spa had vacancies on its Creative Arts Degree. You had to do two different areas from the Arts. The options were Art, Dance, Music, Drama, Textiles and Creative writing. I had English Literature A Level, and had dabbled a bit in creative writing, stories, poems, just privately, so I applied to study Art and Creative Writing.

I had an interview. Two black t-shirt Men this time. An art lecturer, the then head of department, in fact, and the photography lecturer. Is this black t-shirt thing an unspoken uniform? They were very pleasant. 'Did they want to see my poetry?' 'Nah, not their department and the Creative writing people hadn't sent anyone to interview me.' As far as they were concerned, I fitted the criteria and was I sure I was good to go in September? Good to go? 'Yes, you have young children, don't you?' 'Will childcare be an issue?' ' Um, no that was all sorted. Were they offering me a place?' 'Well that is the general idea of this interview, do you want it?' The head of department had a good sense of humour.

I was ecstatic, beside myself. I was going to study Art. I was going to be an Artist. My husband and family were really pleased for me.

The course on the art side was mainly made up of women in a similar position to me. Missed out on art straight from school, had families, not all but most, and now doing something for themselves. I felt safe. The course wasn't perfect but I liked it.

The creative writing element had young people too. Excellent, some fresh blood. As well as two Arts subjects, I had to take an additional module for the first two years...Cultural studies.

I started in September 2000, and passed my driving test in November. This gave me more time after the school drop. I could drive comfortably to campus, from school gate to art studio in twenty minutes. 

I will talk about my Art experience in more detail in another blog.  

The Funny Thing About Truth!

THis morning's 'Midnight-Oil Meal' - natural greek yoghurt, black pepper, simple, cheap, delicious!

Funny thing, truth...I was brought up believing that as long as you told the truth, you had nothing to worry about.

No, no, no, truth is far more complicated than that...you also need PERMISSION!
Names, facts, you can't just use them willy-nilly! You need to ask. So you can't just use a person's real name, or maybe you can...any armchair lawyers out there who can tell me??
Let me stress here, no-one yet is threatening a lawsuit (an Americanism we Brits now embrace!), but just recently this blog and my Instagram account have taken on a bit of a life of their own, and I always use real names except for my nearest and dearest where I use euphemisms (love that word!)
COPYRIGHT ...another beauty. I own the copyright on this stuff, that I know. I borrow from time to time, I try to always say where I've borrowed from.

ALLEGEDLY, I studied Law over a period of several years...that is true. Never really known why, something to do with TRUTH, don't kid yourself, law and truth, they are not the same thing!

I should know all these things, but I gave up on law, and it on me, back in the 1980s, when all law was really about was the MONEY...still is.

Anyway, I digress... It occurred to me in the wee hours that my best friends never met Beverley, she was part of my truth before we met. And I'm not sure, if I ever talked about her to them. It seems odd that two women who are like Sisters to me, should not know someone who was so fundamental to the makeup of my character, to the true me. There will be lots of these TRUTH posts...you will be bored. That's all for now and some irrelevant images. because a good blog, (Self evaluation!) has to have images too...see you soon

Bristol Bier Keller...does it still exist???German bier swilling to music, early eighties stuff.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Today is my Birthday. I'm 56 years old. For the past two years, fifteen weeks and four days, I have been in a passive aggressive relationship with 'incurable' Stage 4 Ovarian Cancer. Next Friday, February 16th, I will undergo surgery for removal of a 3.5cm tumour in my left cerebellum, which may or may not be a metastasis from the Ovarian Cancer.

Occasionally in life, people are given a 'wake-up call' - an incident, or event, so catastrophic, so shocking, that we are made to take 'stock', to slow down and say 'Hey, wait a minute...' 
If we are lucky, we see it for what it is and we start to make changes...
The British Royal Family had it with the tragic death of Princess Diana, the world had it with the surreal unfolding of the Twin Towers. Some people take note, some don't...

I am lucky, I have been given two chances, this is my second...

Some souls never get to say those things they really wanted to say, do those things that they really wanted, had, to do...

In 1973, I started at a local mixed sex Comprehensive school in Bath, UK, The Ralph Allen School. I had come from a tiny C. of E. village school, with only six children in my year. We had been split 50/50 between two tutor groups at Ralph Allen, I was in Mrs. Dear's group with two 'best buddies' from my school, Debbie and Ruth, and my best friend from Primary, Andrea, had been put in the other group with Chris, and  my cousin, Paul. I was out on my own, vulnerable, without my older friend to mother me. We were only in these groups for registration and assembly and then we were split into classes. Ralph Allen was a comprehensive but it did use some academic streaming. I was in the 'top' stream, which had two classes. I was in the lower class, 1P, of the stream, the top class was 1H. After a few weeks it was clear that the streaming needed some rejigging - 1P and H were to be merged into two new classes - 1PH and 1HP, naturally!

The stage was set. I didn't have to move, the seat next to me was empty. Into the classroom came maybe 15 new kids, the 'top' 'H-ers', all bright and bouncy and smiling, and out filed the exiled old 'P's.
A blonde girl, maybe two three inches taller than me, came rushing to my desk. She was warm and vibrant and happy. 'Hi, I'm Beverley, you're Sue. My Mum knows your Mum. We were born on the same ward. I'm a day older than you!'

That was it! Friends, inseparable.  

Beverley Rowe - blonde, confident, warm - my best friend.

I had never known anyone like Beverley before. 
Very soon we we're having sleepovers at her house.
Her Mum and Dad had their own modern house on the Wells Road.
She had her own bedroom, tiny, but it had it's own fitted white furniture, with lots of drawers and mirrors and secret compartments and make-up. I shared my bedroom with my two sisters.
My Mum and Dad were proud, strict, Working Class, who wouldn't accept charity.
Her Mum and Dad were middle class, aspirational, office types - with a drinks cabinet!
I spent so much time with her. Just growing up. I loved her mum, so laid back and warm and stylish. Her Dad, on the other hand, always seemed uptight, in a hurry, out to prove something and really skinny! (Perhaps, I'm being unfair with hindsight.)

Beverley knew everything about life. She was a rebel, a free spirit.We would go shopping on Saturdays together. We had a Saturday job, together. We went roller skating, together, wearing our 'wonderbras' and 'airforceblue' jeans, and tartan Bay City Roller Scarves (pretending they were for Rod Stewart, of course, more street cred!) We shared clothes and stories, and dreams and the occasional casual boyfriend, Dave!

We went to the Odd Down Youth Club and snuck out to get chips! My Dad would have been so angry!
She told me about periods, about tampons, about french kissing, pop music - we were a soul or 50s rock music home. She told me about smoking, drugs, sex...boys. How she knew all these things? I will never know, but she did, and she had less than 24 hours on me!

Beverley was my constant, always there, always dependable, like the core of my left cerebellum, my left arm. We never fought, ever! She never criticised me, even  when I didn't return her make-up, or was late, or didn't turn up at all, or didn't stand up for her when I should have. She only ever supported and encouraged me. 
Beverley had a lisp. When she was younger, she used to worry about it. By the time she was in her mid-teens, she just didn't care anymore. I never really thought about it much.

And for five blissful years, that was my life. In the mid 1970s, Ralph Allen School 'lost' funding for it's sixth form - the politics of this, I never knew, but it meant that anyone showing aspirations to study 'A' levels, had to move on. It was the age of 'equal rights', single sex schools would be a thing of the past. Beverley and I had a plan, we would go to Culverhay Boys School - near my old village so my Mum could take us. You could only go to the school of the opposite sex, if they offered subjects not offered by the equivalent girls' state school. I was going to do Law and Sociology - a 'lefty' in the making. Literally a couple of weeks before we were due to start the sixth form, after the induction, Beverley got cold feet and pulled out. I never really knew why, she was having second thoughts and thinking that maybe, nursing might be more her thing, she was dating a boy from the other school, Beechen Cliff, I think, it all got a bit muddy there - 'But Bev...All those boys!' No, she wasn't going to be convinced, but she supported me anyway and said 'You're going!'

We drifted slightly, stayed in touch, met for the occasional drink...then I went off to University.

In the early 1980s we had a couple of polite fun meet-ups, including a school reunion in The Crystal Palace, where the sleazy boys from Batheaston were still trying to get into our pants! No, they never did! She told me she had a special guy in her life. Tony, she loved him, I could tell. I told her about my boyfriend, and she seemed impressed - I may not have landed a degree but I did have a Junior Doctor!

I had crashed and burned at Uni, taken a golden opportunity and blown it! In the early eighties, I struggled to find a 'decent' job and started working part-time for Tie-Rack in Bath. One evening in my bedroom at home, I had moved into my Brother's old room at the front of the house, a tiny box room, but mine, that fronted onto the only lane in and out of my village, I couldn't sleep. There was a motorbike outside making a hell of a racket, going round and round and revving up. Only there wasn't, several times I looked, the lane was empty. I was dreaming. I spoke to my family the next day, no-one else had heard a thing. I told my boyfriend...I must have been dreaming.
 A few mornings later, cold November, I was sat in the car at the bus stop with my Mum, outside the Crossways Inn, waiting for the bus to take me to Tie-Rack. In my mid twenties and still relying on my Mum and Dad to chauffeur me everywhere. We put the radio on, unusually, the local station, we would normally listen to Radio 1. There had been a serious accident on that Road, with fatalities, the bus would be late. I knew, at that moment, like a bolt, that it was Beverley. I turned to my Mum and said 'Oh my God, I think it's Beverley...'

Beverley had visited her Mum and Dad that evening with Tony to announce their engagement. They had left on his motorbike, and had been involved in an accident with a car. There were no other witnesses. Beverley's body was found thrown some distance from the road in a field belonging to my Dad's employer. I hope she was already dead. I hope she never suffered.

When we were in English, at school, Beverley had written a story where she was being cremated. She had been in a motorbike accident and they were cremating her. But she wasn't dead. She was trying to scream out to them, but the music got louder, nobody could hear her, the casket shut and...

They cremated Beverley and scattered her ashes on Tony's grave.

Beverley's favourite record was 'Stairway to Heaven'. When we piled into my friend's car after the funeral, the first song on the radio, was Stairway to Heaven...

We went to Beverley's Mum and Dad's house. Her Mum showed us photos of when we had slept in a tent in her garden and the 'boys' from our class had gate-crashed! It felt surreal, so un-Beverley.
I never saw Beverley's Mum again after that. It hurt too much. I am deeply ashamed. I loved her Mum.

If you knew Beverly Rowe, of Ralph Allen, then you know me! 

I wonder what she would make of the past thirty or so years...still supporting me probably.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FOR YESTERDAY, BEV!
I loved you.
I always will xxx