I booked a ticket to an exhibition at the Royal Academy of
the Arts.
I’m working through, or playing with, The Artist’s Way book
and this trip was my artist’s date. The thing is, I didn’t really want to go. On
the morning of the exhibition, I had that walking through molasses feeling.
I had been offered three opportunities to head out the evening before, to three Halloween-themed events. A poetry evening, a witches' songs and stories pub night in Hove and a talk on women in folklore. Something inside me was charged that night, and already out the door. I stepped outside to check how the night felt on my skin. I breathed in deeply. It was mild enough for comfort and chilly enough to enjoy a winter coat.
The damp street under misty lamp light is
giving me Randy Crawford songs. I was on my way, but I didn’t go. I don’t know
why. But it made me feel sad, angry and disappointed in myself. Instead, I
stayed home and cooked a meal for my family and even though it was appreciated,
I knew that my lack of commitment and my struggle to organise my thoughts and
my day had left no room for me.
The truth is, deep down I was scared to try something new, I
was scared to find myself in an unfamiliar house, hall or room, completely
free to leave, but completely unable to. Free in the world, trapped in my head.
I still can’t shift the regret. The fact that I sabotaged my
joy and denied my inner artist access to the feast, and its creative offerings.
Still, I went to London with zero anticipation. I felt I
must, having missed out the previous night. A lump of wet dough had more energy than me
that morning. Even the train was taxing. Me, sitting down, sick with anxiety, just
wanting to go back.
In London I felt scared, slightly panicked. I know this place;
this is my town. But my town had changed, and I had to reacquaint myself.
The exhibition was big, it was big, huge. There was so much
space, so much on the plate and I couldn’t eat. I guzzled it down in 20 minutes
without tasting a thing.
I glimpse black human shapes, and white teeth with a gap, a confident police officer, gold wings and musical notes, curving S shapes into the sky from old wireless’s with no sharp edges. I see black hair, black faces, black legs. I am told stories and shown moments and given an idea of what it was like. It was playful, and I played too. Adding my own captions and giving them Brummie and Jamaican accents, for fun. There, I slowed down. I did not want to see children snatched with black hands and fingernails covering their mouths. Maybe Their Eyes Were Watching God, just before they were taken. Now their eyes are screaming.
I was reminded, I was informed, I was exhausted after 20 minutes and
I kept thinking, Oh, I didn’t see that painting, Oh I’m sure I haven’t seen
that painting. There, I slowed down and remembered, there was nothing to get
to, nowhere to be. I sat down, and began again. The black beauty pageant looked
shy and unsure if she belonged, a black Carrie, a beauty queen by whose
standards. I wonder if she fiddled with her crown and I wonder how many times
she touched her dress, I wonder if she stood up straight or looked down. I
can’t forget the naked black man standing like a giant X in the middle of
somewhere. I can’t remember the space around him, just him.
There was a feast. So much had to pass through my small eyes
to get to my huge soul. I cut up my food and ate again, slowly.
At some point, I had to leave. I really needed to sleep
there, and wake up with these black people with white teeth and the gold winged
dress, the ankle sock, puff ball hair, naked legs, and all that, all that I
couldn’t fit into one evening. Imagine living in that space for a week. I’d
need a tent… oh but since it’s only my imagination, I could have a double bed
and a side table with a Dictaphone, and a note pad and a triangular ink joy
pen, you know, they are so easy to write with.
I left, wondering how long it would take me to get to my
next thing. A black history tour of ‘Expecting’ a talk on black mothers in
parts of Africa and the care and protection rituals and practices around them.
I wish I’d gone, but to be honest, I was waning. The time
was 4pm and I couldn’t face the tube. “How are they gonna get 2000 people down
there?” I sighed in sarcasm, deciding instead to wander the streets with no
aim.
I walked, eyes up mainly, the only way you can with adverts sweeping
across the buildings at Piccadilly Circus “Ha!” I chuckled, “How have they put
Boots the chemist there?” It seemed a lucky spot, for such a non-special shop.
Lindt the chocolatiers, curled right around the corner as it should.
I went to Fortnum and Mason, I fantasised from the pavement about being the window dresser. It took me a while to decide to go in. I wasn’t
sure I was allowed. It seemed like the sort of place you had to pay just to
enter. I’d heard that Harrods charged £1.00 to go in years ago. I don’t know,
maybe that was a myth, or true at one point, when people walked around with
coins.
The staff took pride in own concessions department and their
ironed uniform. I imagined being the manager. Striding out onto the shop floor
amidst Christmas shoppers, and thinking, ‘Right, everything seems to be going
well!”
Again, I left quickly, because too big, and it was packed, and
because I on a buffer rule, for my ADHD, I was trying not to impulse buy, but I
really wanted to get at least one thing. The revolving tea strainer was £48.00,
but I think a bar of chocolate was reasonable, I just couldn’t find that bar of
chocolate and again, the crowd, lights, smells and sounds were all coming in at
once and I couldn’t locate where a single thing was coming from, it was
everywhere, until I couldn’t locate a single thought. So, I left, sort of
trying to look as though I hadn’t found what I wanted, yeah right.
Outside and so many lights. It’s after six and the night is so
much brighter than the day around here.
A crowd had formed long ago, sustained and evolving with
every new artist and entertainment that appeared. I stayed briefly, and quickly
left, as it was way too interactive.
I saw a woman I recognised, she was in the RA earlier too.
With new born strapped to her chest, a confident and calm vigilance about her.
She stepped out into the road, a quick and certain glance back for any cars,
before she heads off, home I imagine. She looked like home, her baby looked at
home.
I turned away from her, deciding she was alright. She knew
that place well.
I found myself drawn to darker, dimly lit, wet cobbled streets, First Berwick and Carnaby. Almost overcome by a delicious curiosity. Seduced by something a bit dangerous, I slipped down a secret alleyway, with hidden boutiques to indulge my serious love of fabric, fashion and colour. Streets I didn’t know. Adult shop-lit streets, Chinese ‘massage’ newspaper covered windows, delightfully dark, deliciously seedy. Trouble and ‘sin’ rose to the surface to meet the day people, the nice couple tourists, the families who might have accidentally wandered off track, grabbing their children’s wrists, strapping the little ones, who could walk, and really wanted to, into buggies, for speed and safety, the barflies, the ‘pick pockets operating in this area’, the sex workers, the clients,
They meet in the space between day and night; the
unavoidable squash in places; the milk poured into the orange juice and mother’s
face curdles as she can’t turn away from the naked arse in her face, thighs
half squatting, no knickers or knickers down, pissing – a straight blue shop-lit
piss right there in the street. I must have stopped long enough to ask, ‘is
that happening, I saw it was in the mother’s face.
Is she alright? Well, I won’t stop here, I won’t watch. She
has a story and I don’t know it.
I headed into the high street and to lighter themes.
Designer stores with no customers and minimal displays grouped in colours.
After hovering at the door, I decided to enter, well there was no doorbell.
“Are you open?” Fair question. It was late and there was no one in the shop,
just two stunning girls I didn’t know, but was already pre-judging. They were
light, breezy and very friendly, ‘Oh sure, yeah, ok!’ She overly nodded. I
asked for a business card. Well, I couldn’t pretend they didn’t have what I wanted,
they really had everything I wanted. But I could only afford the business card.
It was time to go home; I wanted to go now, via Mr Ben’s
wardrobe. I really couldn’t cope with the tube. I tried five times to enter the
station, but it was not the path of least resistance. The bus! I would catch a
bus to Victoria Station. I just needed to find my bus. I stood outside the tube
station scanning for one that said Victoria. I paced about busspotting;
distraction was helpful and unavoidable. It helped to pass the time. And as it
is with these things. The minute I forgot about the bus, there it was! Victoria
38. It was getting away from me, but it couldn’t get that far with all these
traffic lights.
I followed it, it disappeared, up a main Street. I lost it,
but there was a bus stop. The display told me that 38 was coming a few minutes.
I was hungry, but I didn’t have time for food. There was a
McDonald’s up ahead, but it was busy, and tables were downstairs. It was bad
enough having to put junk in my stomach when my eyes had dined so well that
day. But eating in their basement? No.
I hung around at the bus shelter. I hadn’t really checked
the café right in front of me, opposite the stop. I thought it was a chocolate
shop. But that was the one next door. They just looked as though it was the
same place. It looked closed, but the door opened when I pushed, ‘Are you
open?’
‘Yes, but the kitchen is closed’
I scanned the fridge. There were a few options. I didn’t
want a meat dish as I was a bit worried about how long it had been in the
fridge. Eventually, I opted for a harissa and quinoa salad pot with a raspberry kombucha…what
have I become?
She offered me a free pastry as it was closing time. ‘Yes
please, thanks!” I accepted gratefully as she packed my dinner into a bag with a
spoon and a just-in-case fork. She was nice, really warm and down to earth.
My bus arrived and I sat upstairs to enjoy the views on the
way to Victoria. I think I annoyed the woman in front with the smell of my
harissa.
It was all smooth sailing from then on. I arrived at
Victoria with my dinner, I had to wait for the super off-peak train, but that
was ok. I nipped upstairs to the mall, before heading to my platform.
The escalator was closed off, so everyone took the stairs. I
started to go down, but we all seemed stuck and there was no movement, I peered
over heads to see a man carrying a too big for him rucksack, he was taking a
long time to get down. I noticed people trying to help him off with the bag.
But at the bottom he struggled to put it back onto his shoulders, when I got to
the bottom, I asked him if he could manage. He said, he could, but the bag was
just too heavy. I offered to bring the other strap around to his shoulder, ‘There
we are!’ As soon as he had his walking stick, I left and boarded the train.
I got a good seat at the front, brilliant.
At Haywards Heath the train stopped. I was head down, deep
in Spotify. I noticed after some time we had been there for quite a while. I
had a bad feeling.
The man making the announcements did not seem to know how to make an announcement. No one could hear except that there had been a collision. I was worried that two trains had hit each other, but then a passenger said someone had jumped onto the track at Worthing, my heart sank. What is going through someone’s head when they decide to do that? It was a heartbreaking thing to reflect on. I wasn’t that bothered about getting home. All the trains to Portslade were cancelled, understandably. But I knew it was all going to get sorted eventually.
I cheered myself up with the hapless announcements and a
fellow passenger who wore an outfit that made him look like a ‘Traitor’
Back in Brighton, I was surprised from behind by an old
colleague and friend, Kamilla. She had been on the same train. We caught up, and
she gave me a lift home.
I couldn’t really sleep that night, too many adventures and
lots to process.
I know one thing. Without that day, I would not have
been able to write this.
I reflect on the artist's paintings at the RA, and how the
predict text on my iPad keeps wanting to make him the actress who played Olivia
Pope. I reflect his enormous creativity. I’m certain the gallery wasn’t big
enough for Kerry James Marshall.
It was all an essential reminder that I need to fill my creative
cup daily and that I can.
I continue to reflect on the day; the woman squatting in the street, the soul who jumped onto the track that night, the little boy twisting his body to escape the buggy that held him, the soft old man, back bent with the load he carried.
I reflect on the black beauty queen, and the crown I
adjust, and often forget to wear.
And well, it all seems to have meaning to me. It all reads
like symbols and messages. No coincidence. It reaches the different parts and
wakes me up.
I’ve got a plan, my cup isn’t full, and when it is, that’s
fine, that’s ok. I’ll just share it with you, and then, I’ll go back for more.
Cheers!
