KINDERTRANSPORT

This play written by Diane Samuels was first performed on stage in 1993. Her aim was 'to probe the inner life where memory is shaped by trauma, history meets story, in order to gain psychological and emotional insight into how a damaged psyche can survive, possibly recover, and whether there might ever be an opportunity to thrive.'
     She tells the story of a child who is sent to Britain for safe keeping by her Jewish parents the year before the second world war started, and before the start of mass genocide. Over 10,000 children were transported abroad. Many never saw their parents again.
     In Samuel's play the child, Eva, adapts to her new family who embrace her. With no news from her parents for years they assume they have been killed, and Eva settles into life in Manchester. She has nightmares about the Rat catcher, a children's story about the Pied Piper of Hamlin, abducting children.
       Eight years later, Efa's mother turns up having survived the holocaust. But Efa doesn't want to go with her to start a new life in the States. The mother leaves devastated. This for me was the most moving part of the play. Imagine the dilemma of sending your child away in the belief that they will be safe. The child feels punished for being sent away. She would have preferred to have died in a concentration camp than be wrenched from her parents.  In dreams, she sees the Rat catcher in her mother's eyes. Her mother longs to be reunited with her daughter but time and circumstances have changed the daughter's attachment. Her British adoptive mother is now the primary attachment figure.
     Against this story is the story of  Efa's current relationship with her own daughter who is on the verge of leaving home, and their attachment and loss issues, so much influenced by Efa's traumatic childhood.
      The play is very good but this production is disappointing. It feels very clunky, and that may be due to the direction. The set also doesn't really do the play justice. There's lots of scope for a more inventive and atmospheric set, lighting and sound. Perhaps this is why it played to a half empty auditorium at the New Theatre in Cardiff.
It's currently on tour throughout Britain until March 2014.

CIPHERS

'A young woman is found dead. Her sister sets out to find out what happened and stumbles into a world of secrets and subterfuge that makes her ask the question,'How well can you ever know someone who lies for a living?'
We saw this play while it was on at the Tobacco Factory in Bristol. It is an Out of Joint production directed by Blanche McIntyre-the company was founded originally by Max Stafford-Clark. It is on tour nationally and well worth seeing. The script by Dawn King is pacey and provocative with a bit of a surprise ending.  The performances are very good although doubling up roles doesn't always work. Characters don't look sufficiently different with an added scarf or coat. The staging creates tension-sliding panels give the feeling of not knowing quite what might be on the other side. The only downside of this is seeing the performers' shuffling feet!
 Contact 'Out of Joint' for touring schedule.

1984

1984, George Orwell's seminal work about State power, control, and persecution seems as fresh and relevant now as when it was published in 1949, when the world was fragmenting into huge power blocs- USSR,USA & Europe. This production of Headlong Theatre and Nottingham Playhouse adapted and directed by Robert Icke and Duncan Macmillan, seeks to revive Orwell's ideas that Big Brother is watching us and that the Thought Police know what is going on in our heads. 'It explores the world inside Winston Smith's head, and the world without, and catches the euphoria and bliss buried deep beneath the cold face of Big Brother.'

Playing to a packed audience at the Sherman Theatre, the play sets out to be very provocative and challenging. The torture scene on stage was especially gruesome. Winston tries to become a member of the Brotherhood, opposing Big Brother, but it is all a scam. Winston is tortured and eventually can take no more. He demands that the guards should torture his forbidden lover, anyone but him. 

The set design by Chloe Lamford was outstanding invoking a chilling and unpredictable atmosphere. The use of technology, projection and good lighting all helped create anxiety and fear.

The first half is somewhat slow and wordy, but it really picks up into a tense and powerful piece. Well worth watching. On at Sherman Theatre til the 9th of November 2013.

 BRAMBLY HEDGE

 

‘He placed the forefinger of his left hand under the ‘fly,’ and with the same finger of his right hand, he gave her a squeeze on the back of the chest.’* He peered through cracked spectacles at her beauty- the fine features of the ‘White Admirable’, (Limenitis Camilla) kaleidoscoped through shards of light. The species is sometimes called, ‘The Glider’ for the effortless way she moves in lightly shaded woodland.

        He’d been chasing her for some time, studying her from different angles. She was quite unaware of this of course, although they’d been a moment in late May when she almost caught a glimpse of him. The Bramble was blossoming, a wedding dress of cream and pink.  From the darker side of the hedge he admired her secretly, her whole body focused on the sensuous task of imbibing nectar. He’d had that funny feeling in his groin that reminded him of a childhood memory. Whilst out looking for butterflies in the woods, he’d come upon a couple embracing passionately. He’d hidden behind the Bramble hedge to watch; the man’s bottom, coal-grubby cupped in tight trousers; the women’s breasts tumbling out of her dress, like new-born Labradors.

    He turned her over on the bench, took the pin, one he’d made especially for the purpose in his lab, and ran it in one smooth incision from her neck, through her body.  Her chest parted, exposing a heart still beating and lungs pulsating. His breath grew shallower. He plunged his right hand inside her and pulled out her organs, slopping them into a kidney dish. Then he took a needle and threaded it with fishing line, and meticulously sewed her up, as if he was embroidering a cushion cover. He took out a luggage label, wrote down her name ‘Camilla,’ and tied it loosely round her ankle, placing her in a glass cabinet, next to the rest of his collection.

 

Janet Daniel

*Quotation from Wilkes, The Admirable Butterfly, 1742.

SOLD

'SOLD,' is a Theatre Versus Oppression production, created by Jennifer S.Hartley. |I saw it at Chapter Arts Centre on Saturday. 'It was written after a period of consultation and counselling of trafficking victims. It tells the story of 6 individuals who have suffered at the hands of traffickers. . . their stories collide at a bus stop in Bute Town, Cardiff.' The subject matter is particularly relevant with the recent discovery of  enslaved people found on a farm outside Newport, working as forced labour.
    You would expect to be moved  by these stories of human misery but overall I wasn't emotionally involved. The problem with the play for me is that there no deep communication and engagement between the individual characters. It is a collection of stories rather than a study of relationships. There is no dialectic to provide tension and different views other than these victims.  Although there were some good performances I'm not sure that the faux Eastern European accents worked well.  The only hope for change was the baby born to an abandoned trafficked victim. The audience was left with the characters' despair and no hints of how change might or could happen. Given that TvO is a charity, 'dedicated to using Applied Theatre to bring about positive change and development,' I left Chapter feeling un-empowered to do something positive,  just thinking, 'Isn't it terrible?'  I think this play would work much better as a starting point for work-shopping and as a piece of theatre in education.
The play is touring Wales til the 9th of November 2013. For further info www.theatreversusoppression.co.uk

CHIMERICA

Last week in London, I saw a 'not-to-be missed' moving play, called Chimerica by Lucy Kirwood and directed by Lyndsey Turner.  The starting point is the photograph by Jeff Widener of the unnamed hero who stood in front of the tanks at Tiananmen Square in Beijing to stop further killing of students protesting against the regime. The play questions how meaning in imagery can be skewed or used according to an individual or organisation's own agenda, and the complexity of heroism. Set in Beijing and New York, in a rotating set that gives pace to the piece, a photo- journalist sets out to find 'Tank Man'. He eventually does find his hero but in his search, he falls in love, and finds that there is another Tank Man, ignored by the Western press.
   Chimerica is on at The Harold Pinter Theatre;  Headlong& Almeida Theatre co-production. www.atgtickets.com

WRITING INTHE MUSEUM & BEES AT CHAPTER

Summer's over.  It's been a wonderful enriching time for which I'm really grateful. I didn't plan to do so much air travel, but both our children have moved abroad and alternatives were so expensive and unfeasable. In the past few months we've been lucky enough to visit Portugal, Switzerland and Singapore.
       Now it's autumn, the 'season' has started. I've enrolled on a new writing course-'Writing at the Museum,' using artefacts from the National Museum of Wales. This term's theme is the use of colour in bugs and butterflies. Science meets art. It's made me think about the nature of collecting. Seeing rows of royal blue tropical butterflies in glass cases, pinned with fading labels; caught, killed, classified and named after Victorian Lepidopterists or Taxonomists. Now these species are probably very rare. Their enthusiasm to share species from exotic lands with the British public could never have foreseen that their activity contributed in some small way to the extinction of the species. Now, the rapid destruction of rainforest by man for commerce and profit, climate change, changes in farming practice, etc, etc, have fast-forwarded the extinction of such beautiful creatures.
      Sue Richardson, Eco-Poet is organising an evening of poetry devoted to Bees- some species are dying breeds. Proceeds will go to Friends of the Earth. The evening starting at 7pm is on Friday 25th October at Chapter Arts Centre, Cardiff. All welcome.

SINGAPORE WILDERNESS

I stood over her, curious. She was large and yellow, crouched in a corner behind the swimming pool; the first ‘wild’ creature I’d seen in the city since arriving.

      Later, I sat on the lit balcony of the 11^th floor apartment my daughter and her partner are renting. The air was humid after monsoon rain. I scanned the landscape-a mixture of Gotham City and a Cubist painting -mountains of high-rise flats and futuristic office blocks.    Something was missing and it wasn’t Batman.

       I listened and looked up at the balcony light. No flying cockroaches, no whining mosquitos, no killer bees or Kamikazi moths. This was tropical Asia. I didn’t get it. Yet the part of me that didn’t want to be bitten or stung, rather liked this new experience-for a while.

     ‘They spray everything here,’ my daughter told me as we sipped our G & T.  ‘They’re afraid of Denge fever.  Last week, they injected clouds with chemicals so it would rain before the Grand Prix-they can’t afford to chance it during the event- it would be a financial disaster.’  

      ‘How do you cope with it?’ I asked. ‘It’s challenging,’ she said. ‘But, there’s a new development, ‘Gardens in the Bay,’ we haven’t seen ourselves. Do you fancy it?’

       We took the boat down the cleaned-up Singapore River, past the statue of Raffles, the First Governor of the Island, a wild-life enthusiast.  A plant that only flowers once a year, the ‘Rafflesia’ was named after him. On we floated towards the modern development of Marina Bay, with its metallic arts complex and Eden-type project with cool houses.  Against the backdrop of the financial quarter stand ‘Super trees’- huge metal constructions towering over the gardens. Climbing plants threaded into the artificial ‘trunks.’ While in close-by Indonesian Kalimantan, I thought, deforestation marches on, raping the rainforest.

       ‘Where does interfering with nature stop?’ I asked. ‘Man-made rain, man-made trees, gassed insects. When will they start making artificial insects, beetles and bees that will replace the natural species they are so keen to destroy?’

      ‘Perhaps ‘they’ already have,’ my daughter said.

       Back at the apartment block, I looked again at the large yellow Cricket by the pool.

      ‘How did you survive?’ I asked her.  There was a deafening sound. ‘They’ were testing the sirens in case of a nuclear war.  But she stayed perfectly still and kept her escape plans to herself.

 

 

BUOY A play by Emily Hinshelwood

Last night we went back to our favourite venue Pontardawe Arts Centre to see Emily Hinshelwood's new play, entitled, 'Buoy.' Emily won the Arts Centre's Scriptslam competition with a ten minute extract from this play. As a result she had the opportunity to work with Dramaturge,Writer and Director, Louise Osborn, and Director Derek Cobley, to develop her work into a full length play.
     Through a love story the play explores the tensions, expectations, myths and challenges of protecting our environment at a time of economic and personal crises.
     Suzy and Ioan meet unexpectedly by a canal. Suzy's husband has sold her travel agency, because it's not making any money. She runs away to the woods to escape her anger and their marriage. Ioan's wife died in childbirth. He is living on a houseboat, running away from his grief and from a baby son, who he can't look after on his own.
      Ioan has become attached to a buoy that he found in the canal. It reminded me a little of  Wilson, the football that Shipwrecked Tom Hanks rescued and views as a confident and friend in the film, 'Castaway.'  Suzy and Ioan hold the buoy giving it their own meanings-from a globe to his son.
      Ioan is no eco-warrior. He walks to Tesco, three miles away to steal food that's past its sell-by date and dumped in bins. Suzy remembers being taught to hunt and fish by her grandfather. They feast on pigeon and rabbit, that she traps and kills. Gradually, as they fall in love, their roles change. Ioan wants to return to the industrial world, where he works for Ford and pick up his old life. Suzy becomes pregnant but she doesn't want to bring a child into that world. He tries to persuade her differently and to come home with him. Suzy moves into the canal boat as Ioan leaves without her. We're left wondering how they'll both survive.
     It's an interesting piece, with great stage effects designed by Daniel Travers. Emily also composed and played the flute and filmed some of the first scenes projected onto a back cloth. My only gripe lies with Suzy arriving at the canal wearing high heels without a speck of dirt or mud having supposedly walked a few miles through the forest. A minor point in a very thought provoking piece.

GOING WILD AT THE HAY FESTIVAL

Yesterday we went to the Hay-On-Wye Literature Festival to hear Robert MacFarlane and George Monbiot speak about their new books.
     Robert Macfarlane writes about his experience of journeying out across the land,mountains, rivers,and sea. His books include 'Mountains of the Mind','Wild Places', 'Old Ways' and his latest book is 'Holloway'-not the prison, but old paths beaten and trodden down by carts, horses, and boots over time. They are embraced by overhanging trees forming a natural tunnel with a tiny light at the end. He said he's only recently realized that his books chart his descent. His next one will be subterranean, about his experience journeying beneath the earth.
       I'm a huge fan of his writing. He writes poetically about his visceral experience of nature, spending nights alone on the top of wind-crushed mountains, long walks across Rannoch Moor or a Suffolk beach guided by sticks that disappear as the tide turns. He makes you feel as if you're his travel companion. While reading his adventures I experience them vacariously and that's exciting, thought provoking, and moving. He says he comes from a rational tradition, where truth must be verifiable. He's not setting out to have a spiritual experience, but his writing for me evokes the search for a deeper understanding of himself and the meaning of life through his relationship with nature. He inspired us to visit wild Sutherland and Cape Wrath, although we didn't follow in his exact footsteps, that would have been too much of a physical challenge, but it got us to places we might not otherwise have visited. I was chuffed that he wrote on our signed copy of 'Holloway', 'Keep Adventuring!' He also introduced me to the work of writer and environmentalist Roger Deakin, who, whilst on their stomachs, looking down a crack in a West Ireland limestone 'pavement', helped Robert redefine the meaning of 'wild' and has made me look at the landscape in a different way.
     'Rewilding' was the theme of George Monbiot's talk:'Feral: Rewilding The Land,The Sea and Human Life.' George Monbiot is a well known environmental campaigner and writes a column in the Guardian newspaper. He has a poetic hopeful vision, with a positive view of conservation, focusing on what you can do or what might be possible by thinking and acting differently. He sees the current system of conservation as narrow, random and negative. He set out his argument, based on the experience of Yellowstone National Park as to why he believes we should be focusing on a top down rather than bottom-up approach to improving the wider eco system. This should be done by reintroducing larger keystone species, such as wolves, lynx, even elephants, that would have a trophic cascade impact on smaller species, meaning there would be an increase of species at all levels. His dream is to create a European Serengeti. He said that positive environmentalism should focus on the rewilding of upland areas,where farmers are paid to keep their land bare.  All this has to start with the self and our estrangement from the natural world.  We have to face our fears and rewild ourselves.

OBRIGADA PORTUGAL

I haven't blogged for a few weeks because I've been lucky enough to spend three weeks travelling round Portugal. The last time we visited was 23+ years ago, to the Algarve with our children. Like most of our holidays then, it was on a budget, staying in rooms in people's homes, secreting in food and eating tinned sardine baguettes on our beds. In one pretty fishing village, Salema, we stayed in a small shell-covered house and lack of space meant that our son, aged about 5, slept on coats on the floor. During the day I sat in a beach bar, reading and drinking beer, recovering from working for Mencap, while Rhys played with the kids and a large stick insect they found on the beach. My son wrote a diary about the lack of fig rolls and mint sauce.
      In researching this trip I referred to the same Rough Guide I used back then. I planned a trip starting in Porto and travelling on the little trains that run through the Minho and the stunning scenery of the Douro Valley, well known for its fine Vinho Verdes and Port wines. Well, they did back then. It was only on the Metro from the airport that I learnt from another Brit, that those lines had closed years ago. Beeching like cuts. But he assured me buses went to nearly everywhere.  And they do. Our trip started and ended at Porto in the north and included Braga, Guimaraes, Mondim do Basto, Coimbra, Lisbon, Sintra and Ericeira.
     Travelling now with just my husband in what the company Booking.Com describe as 'a mature couple' my budget mentality hasn't changed although my resources have. In the old days we'd just pitch up and find rooms. Now with the internet it's easy to book your whole itinery and get some great deals. It also takes the anxiety out of will we/ won't we? find somewhere half decent. However, it would seem that the old habits are still ingrained and I found it very difficult not to choose the cheapest hotel or rooms,even on one occasion when reviews told me the place was dangerous, dirty and has an owner with an attitude problem. After enjoying the comfort of some really nice places and dreaming about being murdered in the communal showers, I relented and cancelled that one.
     Portugal has to be the most relaxed country I've ever visited as a tourist. The people are so helpful and friendly, all  the young people speak English and are happy to answer questions about their situation. More friendly in the north than in the capital, but isn't that often the case here too?  30% of young people are unemployed and there were demonstrations about the austerity cuts. We met graduates of different ages working in cafes and restaurants who were finding it tough but pleased to be working. Undoubtedly times are really hard for most Portuguese. But the transport system is efficient, quick,cheap and clean. (Have you visited Victoria Coach Station lately?) They have invested substantially over the past decade in their infrastructure and are keen on renewables. It's a country full of geographical variety, a history where exploration and adventure is promoted, lots of culture,exhibitions,music festivals, much sponsored by the Gulbenkian Foundation, and where the cost of living for tourists is cheaper than elsewhere in Europe. We drank 'jarros' of excellent wine at 3 Euros a litre. The weather was good and May is a great time to avoid crowds. And the hotels we stayed in? Very comfortable and safe. Obrigada Portugal for a great holiday.
 
 

TREE QUEST 3 -MUCH MARCLE & THE DAFFODIL WAY

Perhaps I imagined it. Does anyone else remember a song called,'Much Marcle in the Marsh' sung by Flanders and Swann from the 1950s/60s? They were a duo who wrote satirical songs to well known light operatic tunes. The reason I'm asking is that this week our friends Diana and Ian took us to the place to see the Much Markle Yew in the yard of St Bartholomew's Church in Herefordshire. 

     As we entered the churchyard through a wide Yew gate we saw a small pink sign on the grass,'Mole Catching in Progress,' and ruminated on games of tag going on beneath our feet while Church Wardens prepared their gas,clubs,or traps. 

     According to Thomas Pakenham in his book,'Meetings with Remarkable Trees, 'The Yew at Much Marcle is one of about 50 gargantuan yews found in British churchyards,that is, yews of more than 30 feet in circumference.' It is presumed to be 1508 years old, so planted around the year 500. Measurements taken over a decade or so suggest it is still growing. It predates the Christian church built there in the 13th Century.

       'Once its branches might have carried Pagan trophies,or the severed heads of sacrificial victims. Christianity would have purged it of this. Until the Reformation its dark green leaves would have provided 'palms' for Palm Sunday processions...Life was the meaning of the tree that seemed itself  immortal. Death was the meaning of the poisonous,scarlet berries and the tough pink wood,as springy as steel,used for spears,arrows, bows.'

       Encircling the Yew in a horseshoe are the headstones of the dead, like a gothic audience witnessing the contemporary goings on inside the tree. The hollow interior has a skin of gargoyles and ghouls hanging from its walls. Life is represented by a birds nest and a bench fitted for parishioners' shelter. With just enough room for two it's a perfect hideout for lovers who don't mind spirit voyeurs. 

      As we left the churchyard I could hear a Flanders and Swann song floating somewhere in the chilly breeze.

     After a bit of a food quest we moved on to stroll through woods in the 'Daffodil Way' 

     Wild daffodils, or Narcissus pseudonarcissus, were once a common sight in England, but intensive agricultural practices and use of chemicals has led to them becoming less common. Around the villages of Dymock, Kempley and Oxenhall close to the Gloucestershire/South Herefordshire border, wild daffodils once carpeted the meadows, orchards and woods in great profusion.  
      Because of climate change and the exceptionally cold weather this Spring, they were late and we were lucky enough to see huge swathes mixed with fat white wood anemonies. Wild garlic ready to burst open if only it warms up.

    Our day out bringing us life after death. 

       
   

TREDEGAR HOUSE - ANCIENT TREE QUEST 2

 Yesterday we set off on our second ancient tree quest in the direction of Newport and Tredegar House. We were looking for a broad avenue of oak pollards, laid out shortly after 1664 in the old deer park, part of the Tredegar estate owned by the Morgan family for 600 years and now managed by the National Trust on a 50 year lease from Newport City Council. In their ownership it was once described as 'the grandest council house in Britain.'

      We hoped we'd be more successful than our first search in Aberthaw. An avenue of pollarded trees should be easy to spot we thought, but in 90 acres of garden and parkland, who knows? Pollarding  is a pruning system in which the upper branches of a tree are removed, promoting a dense head of foliage and branches. It has been common in Europe since medieval times.Traditionally, trees were pollarded for fodder to feed livestock or for wood. Pollarded trees tend to live longer than the unpollarded as they do not have the weight and windage of the top part of the tree. Older pollards often become hollow, so can be difficult to age accurately.
        I'm discovering that when you set off on a quest you don't necessarily find what you are originally looking for. Sometimes you bump into something else more interesting to surprise you. So it was when we entered the Cedar Garden and were confronted by a magnificent
Cedar of Lebanon, its leafy arms outstretched giving cover and shade to Sir Briggs buried in its shadow. Sir Briggs was the steed of Godfrey Morgan, First Viscount Tredegar. Both fought in the Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava in 1854. Alongside were the graves of three family dogs. All framed by magnolias and herbaceous borders of tulips and hyacinths,whose sweet perfume perfaded, lifting the chilly Sunday afternoon.
         At the end of the 18th century the Morgan family had originally owned 40,000 acres in Monmouthshire, Breconshire and Glamorgan. The last Viscount of Tredegar, Evan Morgan,kept wild animals inside as well outside the House, including a boxing kangeroo and a flock of birds that according to Phil Carradice on his BBC Wales blog, did his bidding. He was known as,'The Black Monk,' being an expert in the occult and even built himself a 'magik' room,where he performed rituals. He was a high ranking officer in MI8 in WW2, responsible for monitoring racing pigeons. After a court martial for leaking secrets, he put a curse on his CO, who later contacted a mysterious illness and nearly died.
         So I wondered as we came on the broad avenue of oaks,what memories and secrets were they hiding in their hollowed trunks and in the pores of their scarred rhino skins.As we walked among them, flat palms on rough bark, Black-headed Crows danced on the grass around us. We counted more than twenty-five oaks on each side of the avenue that led back to the grand entrance of the red-bricked House. I saw gold and black carriages carrying gentry in procession towards licentiousness. The trees' hollows became vulvas and arse holes mocking them en route.   In my weird imagination of course.
       Ahead of us,the M4 cut across what would have been the continuation of the deer park. We could see the avenue continuing up the hill on the other side of the motor way, its marine roar bringing us back to the Twenty-first Century with a jolt.
   
     

RIGHT ROYAL SEND OFF?

What's the difference between a military and state funeral? A couple of million or two? I couldn't help but watch the event on TV today. Mainly, to see the demonstrations against Maggie but also to witness how a military funeral could cost £10million. Despite very strong anti-Thatcher feelings, I personally couldn't have danced on her grave or demonstrate at the event. It just didn't feel right. It appears from BBC News that her supporters clapped out the sound of any opposition. Perhaps there were lots of other people who felt like me. So I wore something red, went for a walk, had a minute's reflection on the consequences of her policies to the South Wales Valleys.
      I was working in Rhondda from 1983-1988 with Rhondda Community Arts and Spectacle Theatre in Education and Community Theatre. Later, with Mencap I had an All Wales remit, so I got to visit the Valleys quite a bit.
      Of course the Unions at the time needed to be brought under control and some of their restrictive practices curbed, but what Maggie's policies did was to emasculate them and the working class communities of South Wales and the north of England.
      No thought was given to the consequences of closing the mines. The pit had been the centre of the working community.There was little if any other employment. Miners wages paid for the establishment of welfare institutes- centres of self improvement, leisure and education. Beautiful buildings fell into a state of disrepair-too expensive to maintain without their financial support. The Government first denied that there was a plan to close all existing mines in Wales. Then it was announced that they would be closed because it was no longer economic to mine coal. No large scale alternative sources of employment or re-training of the workforce were planned, or funded, or new businesses established, before the closure of the mines and long after. Communities felt abandoned. It was the start of generations of men who were never able to get local work, the rise in drink, drugs, social problems, poverty and deprivation.
       It would seem that those who support the assertion that Maggie was the greatest prime minster of the twentieth century, and was Britain's saviour, live mainly in the affluent areas of South-east England where the financial service industry has flourished and there was already an established culture of private enterprise. Speak to anyone round here and it's no wonder that people think and feel differently.
        Today, a friend reminded me of the 'Spirit of 45.' the recent Ken Loach film about the aspirations and policies of post-war Britain. It was a time of wanting the world to be a better and more equal place for all sections of society. A concept that Maggie said never existed. Thatcher's children and grandchildren have been brought up on the cult of the individual. Take what you can for yourself and bugger anyone else. Survival of the fittest. Maggie Thatcher may be dead and buried but Thatcherism is still alive and kicking.

VERTIGO

We’ve been coming down to Pembrokeshire for the past thirty years.  Every year as we walk the coastal path, look into deep chasms of old red sandstone , watch white foam creeping up a pebbly shore or waves blasting off cliffs, I’ve said, ‘I’d love to paint that.’  Well this week I did something about it and enrolled on a course with Indigo Brown Creative Holidays.

       The last time I’d done any painting on paper was at school 50 years ago and that had ended badly. My art teacher was a neurotic elderly nun, Sister Bridget, a traditionalist, who discouraged creativity and freedom of expression. I wasn’t interested in drawing static objects. I preferred Lichtenstein to Leonardo then, and consequently failed O level dismally.

        Twenty years on I did mural painting, kind of painting by numbers-filling in blocks of colour in the design drawn up by my husband. We called ourselves, ‘The Gwaelod-y-Garth Mural Workshop’ and together with some of the young people in the area did several community arts projects.  It was fun, and I loved the times when I was on my own, painting large areas with just the river and birds for company. 

         Thirty further years of admiring other people’s art work and the desire to paint wouldn’t go away.  I saw a course, ’Art for the Terrified’ and thought, ‘Perfect.’   The tutor threw Horse Chestnut conkers and autumn leaves onto the table and invited us to draw them. Panic and terror!  It was the longest two hours of my life.  Even less psychologically minded than Sister Bridget, she invited us to walk around the table and contemplate the work of the other twenty students. It was obvious many were not beginners and if they had been terrified it didn’t show in their accomplished lively sketches. My conker resembled a sputnik, my leaf a rocket.  I felt the exposure and shame I imagined Eve might have felt after God had evicted her from the Garden of Eden.  

       ‘Have you thought about having lessons on a one to one basis? ’Judy Linell, a visiting tutor at Indigo Brown asked me, as my emotions took me by surprise  and a pudding- size pebble stuck in my oesophagus.   I felt near to crying and I’m not usually prone to blubber.  We strode side by side up to the top of Garn Fawr.  She’d only asked us to do a sketch. Why was it such a big deal for me? I’d admitted the previous evening to being a complete beginner and having been on a disastrous course for the so-called ‘terrified.’ I soon discovered I was the only beginner. Meaning well and intending to help, Judy and Maggie, both inspiring and accomplished artists, would say,’ Now where’s my terrifed lady?’ I began to feel that I stood out like a Limpet wimp. I mean let’s get a sense of proportion here. I wasn’t being asked to climb Everest or put my life at risk. I was only asked to put some marks on a piece of paper.

      ‘I don’t want to draw a house,’ I said stroppily, when Maggie suggested I start with something easy. ‘I’ve come to paint the sea.’ I imagined the tutors laughing at me with the other students. ‘What does she think is going to happen? Fall off her sketch book?’  The wind raged and nearly blew me off the trig point as I clambered up and turned full circle to see the stunning views of Strumble Head, the wild Atlantic, headlands dissolving in silver mist, freshly furrrowed fields of monotone, and John Piper’s cottage tucked up cosily under the lichened limestone.

        ‘Are you the lady who doesn’t know anything?’ one of the other students asked me when we returned to Maggie’s artistic home, and sat drinking coffee. I nodded. I guess that probably summed me up. ‘I felt like that up there,’ she said, and later as we played with watercolour, she said, ‘I just want to run away.’      Me,too.

        I did go back the next day and so did she. She produced some lovely little paintings. Judy and Maggie did their very best to encourage me. I loved watching Judy perform her magic in demonstrations, and playing with the paint myself and getting some interesting effects .Getting a composition I was happy with defeated me-on this occasion. There was some beautiful work produced by other students. At the end I was the only student not to put their work up for critique. I couldn’t go that far. However, I did feel a door has been opened for me. The next time I fall into a navy blob of watercolour or off the edge of a piece of cartridge paper, I’m sure my fall won’t be so terrifying and my landing will be much softer.

ANCIENT TREE QUEST

Yesterday marked the start of a new joint project with Rhys. We are going in search of ancient trees.Our idea is for Rhys to paint them and me to write about the experience.
       We went looking for the True Service Tree (Sorbus Domestica). considered by some to be over 400 years old. According to our guide book-Heritage Trees Wales by Archie Miles, this rare species is to be found on the lime stone cliffs at Aberthaw, a few miles west of Cardiff Airport.
      We hadn't been to Aberthaw for years. To get to it you pass through the pretty village of Gileston. We were not prepared for the cubist acropolis that towers over the village,and that is the West Aberthaw Power Station, providing electricity to homes in South Wales. How could  a rare species of tree survive here?
        The little car park was nearly full of dog walkers coming and going. It was a beautful sunny day,the first for a while, the sun playing on the Bristol Channel with the Somerset hills in view. We set off on the concreted footpath that circuits the Power Station on the left with the sea wall on the right. The scale of the Power Station is immense.The fence has 'Keep Out' notices and a patrol car with flashing lights stalking the fence.
      'Trees!' Rhys said, as I tried to pretend I wasn't taking photos.
      'You mean logs,' I muttered,snapping vigorously. I remembered hearing that the Forestry Commission was providing trees for burning in power stations.  Then I spied chugging slowly over the horizon coal wagons,with the EWS logo. We often ponder where they are heading when we are woken up in the early hours as they pass the bottom of our garden, from several miles up the valley.
       After several poo alerts and a pulverished ash tip we reached the headland to discover another monument behind the fence. It looks like huge wire wings, but is an environmental/alternative energy centre,with solar panels on the roof of the building below. On we walked until we reached the Aberthaw Bio-Diversity area; a lake with swans and young trees,and on the edge what looked like the ruins of a building that may have burnt lime. We read the notice,'Respect,Protect,Enjoy!'
and on the plaque among the other species you could find there, a washed out picture of our quest.
       'Brill!' Not far now,'we said.
      We scoured the cliffs as we descended onto the salt marsh with mallards chuckling and families making fires on the the rubbish strewn beach.
       'That could be it!' Rhys shouted, several times, pointing upwards as we tripped our way through the plastic debris, avoiding danger signs of people falling off cliffs. Above us was Fontygary Caravan Park. Last winter a few caravans hadn't heeded the sign and fallen over the edge as the cliff crumbled.
         'It says in the book that the leaves are like the Rowen or Ash with distinctive fruits,like little clusters of small ruddy pears.'
         'Pity, there are no leaves on the trees then, let alone fruit.'
         'They may have been introduced by the Romans...I'm sure it's that one, up there in the ivy.'
         'It's impossible to tell.  Everything's covered in ivy.'
         'Or is that one?'
         'Or that one?
         'I'm sure it's that one.'
         'Are you hungry?'
         'You are!'
         'Barry Island, Fish and Chips?
         'Come on. We'll come back in the early autumn,when it should be easier
          to identify the True Service Tree.'
         'Hmm.'
       
     
       
   
     
     

MEMOIR: A REFLECTION ON THE PROCESS OF LIFE WRITING

_{In January to March 2013 I attended a course in Life Writing/Memoir at Cardiff  University’s Life-Long Learning Department, led by the excellent tutor, Amanda Rackstraw. It got me writing again after a half year or so slump.}

       _{I’ve found the process fascinating. Amanda used the senses primarily as her stimuli for writing exercises. I produced several short pieces and completed a 25 page piece interweaving my experience in Indonesia with my earlier childhood. I also did a lengthy piece on my career and approach to activism. It’s as if the past has become the present and I can’t distinguish them. I’m re-living my past in a way that makes me feel like a time-traveller. Or am I getting dementia?  Certainly, I’ve become obsessive finding out more about the current lives of people who were important to me and those that shaped and influenced me forty or fifty years ago.}

        _{Some of these people have died quite recently and that’s triggered my thinking about the nature of friendship,memory and connection. My attachment issues raise their grubby backsides again!} Some have reached lofty places in their careers.  Some have married, had families, got divorced. Some of these people are hard to trace, while others, through the internet, could be a phone call or email away. But what would be the point? What would be the benefits to me and them? Would they even remember me? and, What might be the unintended consequences of re-connection?

MEMOIR: THE WHISTLE

 

I don’t know where my Dad first learnt to whistle. Perhaps, it was playing in the outside orchestra of East End market streets; Billingsgate Fish market or Spitalfields? My grandfather, also called John Teal, was a driver of a horse drawn carriage for the Co-operative Stores, possibly picking up ‘flesh, fowl and roots’ from Spitalfields and delivering to retail outlets across London.

         My Dad was born in 1912, before the car was popular, and he told us stories about how as kids, he and his mates would jump on the back of horse drawn carriages hitching lifts, hidden from the driver’s view, or like Fagin’s children pinching fruit from wheelbarrows or market stalls. Perhaps he was whistled at by an irate carriage driver or incandescent market stall vendor?

       To whistle, he put his two forefingers and two little fingers in his mouth (what a mouthful!) producing the sort of screech that would have brought a pack of Arctic wolves or stampede of migrating caribou up the New Kings Road, no messing. He would lean out of the kitchen window of our top floor flat and whistle me home for dinner or tea. I was playing three streets away and not always outside, sometimes inside a friend’s house. But there was no mistaking that whistle and I knew food was about to be put on the table. Woe be tide me if I was late.

        Our annual holiday was sometimes spent at a Holiday Camp. On one occasion my Dad entered a knobbly knees competition. He could move his knees up and down whilst whistling or humming. At the time there was an act performed on a Saturday night variety show called ‘Opportunity Knocks.’ The guy had a face painted on his back. When he moved his back muscles it resembled a face smiling, angry or contorted. He did this to a well-known organ music tune. Dad could do that with his knees.  He won the competition.

      In later life in the rare event of calling a taxi he would use the same whistle and he could bring traffic to a standstill. He tried to teach me how but I could never get the technique, and whistling in those days was not considered to be very ‘ladylike.’ I can’t whistle now, even if I’m pursing my lips inviting a kiss. Although, without my denture I can produce a whistle while I’m talking, which can sound like I’m a ventriloquist or have a mild speech impediment. However, the tradition has not been entirely lost and is handed down through marriage.  My husband lead groups of children whistling, ‘Bridge on the River Kwai,’ and other songs at school Eisteddfods. They won prizes for whistling. If I’m feeling down my husband will whistle me a little tune like Julie Andrews in the film, ‘The King and I’. It’s the perfect cheer-up medicine.

Janet Daniel.   March 29 2013

THE GANNET MONOLOGUE

I recently attended a Life writing/Memoir course tutored by the excellent Amanda Rackshaw at Cardiff University's Life-Long Learning Department.

1962. MOTHER & DAUGHTER. 82A NEW KING’S ROAD, FULHAM. IN THE SMALL KITCHEN.

       ‘She’s got her hand in that biscuit time again. It’s the same with the cheese. She can eat half a pound of Cheddar in the time it takes me to walk across the road to the Co-op. Look at her-bleedin’ gannet, dive–bombing her way through the whole tin. Those are supposed to last us a week. Some hope with her appetite. It’s not like she’s starving. She can’t be hungry. She just had a cooked dinner and a pound of apples. I can’t afford to keep on replacing the cheese and biscuits every few days. Times are hard enough… and Look at her,head in a book. The lazy mare!

    You need to get off your arse and do something, young lady. Don’t look at me like that either, or you’ll see the back of my hand. What? I’ve got more strength in my little finger than you’ve got in your whole fat body.

    Put the tin away NOW!  You’re not the only one in the family, you know. When I want a Garibaldi or your father wants a Fig Roll, they’ll be none left. What did you say? Don’t answer me back. . . It’s always the same with you, isn’t it? Eat,eat,eat! No boy will ever fancy you. Mark my words. No man wants a fat wife.    Your father did? Well, times were different then. Anyway, enough of your cheek. Come on, give me that biscuit tin.  I said, GIVE IT HERE!   ( SHE PULLS THE TIN AND ALL THE BISCUITS FALL OUT & SCATTER OVER THEM BOTH AND ALL OVER THE FLOOR. SHE BECOMES ANGRY.GOES TO HIT DAUGHTER, WHO TRIES TO GET AWAY & CROUCHES IN CORNER).   

   Gertcha! Now, see what you’ve done. I’ve sweated hard on this place. Not that you’d notice now.  I would have bought a bag of broken biscuits if that’s what I’d wanted. It would have been cheaper too.  Jesus Christ! You try my patience. Now, young lady, clear up this mess. Pronto!        Go on then! Leave home. Do us all a favour.

 Janet Daniel. March 29 2013

TRIBUTE TO ALWYN JONES

Alwyn was an environmental campaigner, activist and our neighbour when we lived in Gwaelod-Garth. In recent times we often met on walks on the Garth.

We recognise you by your values

Hard core green

Sincere

A man living by his principles

fighting for peace in times of war

 

We recognise you by your intelligence

logic, evidence of research.

Your ability to debate at length

to protect the environment

you prize so much.

 

We recognize you by your fleecy marigolds-

Day-glo gloves glowing

as you speed-walk, ruck-sacked

through Garth Mountain mists.

 

We recognise you by your determined chin

few words, lopsided grin,

but most of all we recognise you by your values.

 

 

Janet Daniel

January 2013

TERRACOTTA AND BLUE-TRIBUTE TO JENNY HAMES

I met Jenny in Athens in 1974. She was Vice Consul for the New Zealand Government. I was Librarian at the British Council. She was hugely influential in my life.

 

 

Terracotta and blue

define your memory.

Colours of earth, sky, sea

run through your veins,

germinate in your soul;

surface

as warmth, light, depth, vision,

and grow

in all that you are,

loved by all whom you know.

 

Janet Daniel

2 January 2013

LYNDA PUGH REMEMBERED

In the last three months three old friends have died, Lynda Pugh, Jenny Hames and Alwyn Jones. It's made me think a lot about the nature of friendship and how I wish I'd made more effort.

I met Lynda at Birmingham College of Commerce in 1967, when we both embarked on a Librarianship course, and in our second year we shared a flat together in Handsworth with six others, and whoever else felt like crashing on our tea-sodden living room floor after a night of Leonard Cohen and political debate. She stood out in our group with her sharp intellect, high forehead and Pre-Raphaelite looks, like one of Burne-Jones’ angels-the petite one.

      She was extremely well-read and her values shone through any discussion or debate. In a modest way she lived and practised those values. She had a wicked sense of humour; witty and at times surreal, always enjoying the sense of the absurd, her deep voice chortling at some faux pas or irony committed by a hapless politician, or one of our group, often me! She was non-judgemental of her friends, fiercely loyal and supportive. For her size she could really pack away the food and never put on weight. How I envied her! And in those days none of us exercised. She was also often the one who washed up our greasy dinner plates and tidied up our boyfriends’ mess.

       Lynda was very creative and a job in a library was never going to satisfy that or her need to help people in a deep, meaningful way and create social change. After leaving College she worked in London and Cambridge with the Cyrenians, putting herself in very challenging and risky situations working with homeless people, the poor and destitute. I went to live abroad and we lost touch, which I now regret.

        In December 2009 five of the original eight flatmates met up for a reunion. It was over 37 years since I’d seen Lynda. She had just retired from full-time work. It was inspiring to see how she’d grown and developed, her strong values, kindness and humour at her core…and still that throaty laugh.

Lynda died from cancer on 9^th March 2013. She was 64.

Janet Teal Daniel

THE SPIRIT OF 45

Another film in the WOW (Wales One World Film Festival) at Chapter Arts Centre at the moment. Ken Loach directs and writes the screenplay of  a history of the British Welfare State. The film was simultaneously transmitted by satellite to over 40 cinemas in the UK. In Cardiff it was sold out.
     Loach describes life in Britain before the war, when working class people in cities lived in squalid poverty and atrocious housing. We see the impact of the Depression and mass unemployment in the late 20's and 30's and the lead up to WW2. When fighting men came home from the war, they demanded a different way of life.  The Government borrowed money to invest in new housing, new towns, clear bomb damage, and provide new publically owned services. Loach shows us how the Welfare State and the NHS came into being with the courage of politicians such as as the Liberal, William Beveridge, and Aneurin Bevan under the Labour Party leadership of Clem Attlee. He shows us the hope and idealism of the age. All utilities, infrastructure of the Railways, the Docks, Mines, and the Car Industry were all taken into public ownership. Unfortunately, the new nationalised industries designed to give the working class a better deal, were managed by Boards chaired by former capitalist bosses. They were managed top-down and highly centralised bodies.
       Loach then whisks us off to the 1970s and 1980s and Thatcherism. The move from communities looking after each other to a culture of individualism.  Thatcher said,'There's no such thing as Society.' We see the dismantling of nationalised industry, the selling off of Council houses, and the long-term impact on what is happening now-the privatisation of the NHS and related services.
     In the panel discussions after the screening, Loach denies that this is a nostalgic film but rather a call to arms or a call for more discussion in the form of a People's Assembly and a new political party-a coalition of the left-to save the spirit of 45. Labour's period of government under Blair is ignored in the film. What happened to the Socialist party lead by George Galloway, called 'Respect?'
      I'm not a supporter of Thatcher at all, but I think it's a pity that Loach gives no time in his film for some of the not-so-good aspects of nationalisation. He romanticises nationalised industries and fails to discuss the impact of these large monopolies on the quality and cost of services to the public, and practices such as Trade Union Closed Shop practice, ripe in the print industry for example in the 1960s. There was a very good book puvlished in the 1980s called,  ' It's no way to run a rail road,' which gives a more balanced view. It would have been helpful to bring together the learning from the past. Who would want to return to heavily centralised organisations managed by men? If the NHS is going to survive as a national treasure, surely it has to be managed differently, so there's real accountability from bottom up and top down. Huge organisations have to be broken down into smaller parts if they're going to be able to be managed efficiently, owned by the people for the community, and providing excellent service.
     The problem for me in Loach's film is looking at the old order to find new order solutions. Of course we must learn from the past, but the reality is we aren't in a post-world war situation. There are different threats, including religious fundamentalism, the marginalisation of women in some societies, terrorism, the crisis of confidence in capitalism in the West and the burgeoning economies of China, Brazil, Nigeria, India, with crime, drug wars and ever widening gaps between rich and poor in the developing world. Then there's the biggest issue facing mankind today- climate change. Loach's answer is too simplistic for me. We need to prioritise what's important to us as a society. Socialists, Anarchists and Greens are coming together in the 'Occupy Movement.' If the spirit of 45 and the spirit of 2011 could be combined against the darker side of capitalism, without suppressing innovation, ideas and community entrepreneurship, perhaps we might see some progress.

For more information Google, The People's Assembly' and The Coalition of Resistence'.
  

NOSTALGIA FOR THE LIGHT

This film directed by Patricio Guzman is  part of the current 'Wales One World Film Festival,' at Chapter Arts Centre, and marks the 40th anniversary since the military coup led by General Pinochet that resulted in the death of President Salvador Allende and thousands of his supporters. 'The coup was the final chapter in Chile's first socialist experience,when finally the local wealthy classes supported by the USA and CIA,abandoned any pretences of obeying the rule of law and joined in the overthrow of the democratically elected government...' (www.chile40yearson.org.).
       The cinematography by Katell Djian is superb, focusing on the detail of the lives of those women still seeking the remains of their loved ones who disappeared during the seventeen years of the dictatorship, and who may have been dumped in the Atacama Desert or into the sea.  
          The Atacama Desert is the brown bit on the Planet Earth taken from outer space, the only bit of our planet that has no humidity at all.  It is home to giant telescopes and astronomers who study the past through the stars. The film sets this up against the juxtaposition of the 'women of the disappeared.' Stars and human bones are both made of calcium. We see a stark image of an elderly woman sifting through the vast desert sand looking for bones, another who finds her brother's foot, identifiable by his shoe, followed by shots of whirlpools and galaxies of cosmic starlight; very beautiful, but both stare into some kind of void. 
        Jesse Cataldo (www.slantmagazie.com) says,'Nostalgia for the Light' is also an existential mediatation on the inherent horrors of existence, finding parity between the cold recesses of space and the more immediate loneliness of human life.'
         To me it also an exposition on the mystery of our existence, bringing science, spirituality and art together. Breathtaking and strange. I recommend this film to you.
For more info see www.chapterarts.org.uk.

          

MADAME BUTTERFLY

Thw Welsh National Opera's Spring 2013 programme is entitled, 'FreeSpirits' and includes three operas, one of which is Madame Butterfly by Giacomo Puccini. The programme states,
   ' In 1887 Pierre Loti published Madame Chrysantheme, an account, drawn from his own experiences and observations while living in Japan, of a Frenchman making what he considered to be a temporary marriage with a young Japanese girl. This in turn, inspired the American writer, John Luther Long to write a story, Madame Butterfly, and from a combination of the two, the playwright David Belasco devised a play which was a major Broadway hit at the start of the twentieth century and inspired Puccini's opera.'
        The opera has become probably one of the most well known ones, with moving songs like,''One Fine Day.' This production, first perfromed by the WNO in 1978 has Cheryl Barker playing Cio Cio San (Madame Butterfly), and Gwyn Hughes Jones as Lieutenant BF Pinkerton. They both have fantastic voices and it was a wonderful peformance overall, but I just couldn't suspend belief that Cheryl Barker could possibly be 15. She looks more like 40- a middle-aged mother rather than a virgin bride. It was the same in La Boheme, where the Bohemians are supposed to be in their twenties, but sported paunches like men in their fifties.  
         Their blonde-haired child, called 'Trouble' was adorable, at times scratching his itchy backside as Cio Cio San sang in Italian an inch or two from his face. He was supposed to be between two and three years old, but was probably four or five. I really worry about the long-term effect it may have on a child actor, playing the child of a suicidal and desperate mother, who kills herself, while he sits blindfolded at the front of the stage. I worried about the child in Medea for similar reasons. I wonder if any research has been done about the potential for post-traumatic stress on child actors in later life. Or, do children just see being in a play or opera such as this as make believe and game playing? I really hope so.
  

ONE MAN TWO GUVNORS

On Saturday we saw the National Theatre touring production of 'One man two Guvnors,' by Richard Bean based on The Servant with Two Masters by Carlo Goldoni, with songs by Grant Olding.
The auditorium of the Wales Milennium Centre was packed with a very appreciative audience of over 1800.  North Walian actor,Owain Arthur played the lead role of 'the man/servant' He was OTT at times ( I guess he was supposed to be but his laughing at himself messing up got on my nerves after a while) and some of the so-called audience participation bits seemed a bit too rehearsed. Coming out of the tradition of Commedia dell 'Arte it was like watching a 'Carry On' piece. In fact in the programme there's a picture of  Barbara Windsor in 'Carry On Camping.'
    The audience loved it. I enjoyed it although some of the romantic relationships I found hardly credible.. It's certainly something very different from NT touring productions I've seen before. I wondered if I'd have enjoyed it more with James Corden in the lead?

ARTES MUNDI 5- 3 days left!

The National Museum says that,
        'Artes Mundi is Wales' biggest and most exciting visual art exhibition. It's the UK's largest art prize and one of the most important in the world...explores social themes from across the globe with insight,compassion and humour. From popular culture to politics, from death to displacement, the use of painting, sculpture,installation,photography, film and performance offers an artistic platform for commentary on the world we live in today.'

    We'd missed all the events associated with the exhibition at the Museum and at venues across Cardiff, that started in October 12 and finishes this Sunday,13th of Janaury 2013.  What a pity! This is such a thought provoking exhibition and has developed considerably over the years. This is the fifth bi-annual exhibition. If you can't make it by Sunday, downloadable audio tours are available from ww.artesmundi.org, but I'm not sure how long these will be available.
    We decided to take the reality tour and were lucky to have an outstanding guide, Heloise Godfrey. Art of now can be very challenging and it's easy enough to dismiss it without understanding its context and meaning. Heloise didn't lecture us, she asked us questions,'How does this make you feel?','What's your immediate reaction?,' What do you think?' She helped us see the multi-layeredness of the pieces about what it is to be human, and come to our own conclusions. The tour was informative, the exhibition fascinating, intriguing, moving and as ever made me ask of some pieces,'But is it art?'
     Artists include Swedish Miriam Backstrom,Cuban Tania Bruguera,Phil Collins, Indian Sheela Gowda, Mexican Teresa Margolles, Darius Miksys, and Apolonija Sustersic. The judges' winner was Teresa Margolles, whose macabre and moving pieces set in a morgue are about violent deaths caused by drug gangsters in Mexico.
      While we were on the tour, the audience vote was being counted. My suspicion is that the audience vote will go to Miriam Backstrom. Her piece is a huge tapestry of cotton, wool, silk and lurex woven in Flanders. It depicts figures in a room composed of mirror fragments, creating millions of reflections. The more you look into it the more there is to see and think about.  The reason I think this will win the audience vote is because of the sophistication of the medium and becuase it is so well crafted.  It reminded me of Grayson Perry's work- a combination of interesting ideas, an original narrative and extremely well crafted.
      For me the photography of Phil Collins is not unlike the work of Martin Parr, and therefore not particularly original; Sustersic's Tiger Bay Project is more like social history. I liked Tania Bruguera's performance piece of police on real horses in the Museum foyer(we watched the video) on the subject of power and control. I admire her Immigrant Respect political campaign. But overall, I think I'm with Grayson Perry, that to stand up as serious art, the piece not only has to ask questions and challenge but  should also include craftmanship in the process. Tell me what you think!
     
  

ART IN NATURE 2- DAVID NASH

David Nash is one of my favourite environmental artists. His studio is in North Wales but he has recently completed a residency at Kew Botanic Gardens and this exhibition is situated both inside the gallery and within the grounds. In his catalogue the artist says,
   '...we cannot separate ourselves from the natural world. Our actions, from everyday activities to essential industrial work have an impact on it. My work invites the same consideration. Nature is the essence of our continued existence-it guides us spiritually and takes care of us practically. Wood, specifically, is a fundamental survival material, providing us with material to build homes and with fule to keep us warm. The art that I create is fed by such a union, and should always be observed with this essential, unique and sometimes challenging relationship in mind.'

As well as some monumental pieces, there are some smaller objects crafted from recycled wood found in Kew- beautiful shapes, beautifully crafted. What I particularly enjoyed was a short contemplative film about the journey of a boulder of an ancient oak tree from the forest in the Ffestiniog hills down to Cardigan Bay. Filmed  over several years the boulder takes on a personality of its own-lonely, courageous, determined, solid. In Cardigan Bay there is evidence of ancient forests buried by the sea. When the boulder reached the estuary, there was almost a feeling of it coming home. Its journey isn't over yet. Who knows when and where else it may turn up?

The exhibition is on until April 2013. I urge you to go and experience it. For more info see www.kew.org

ART IN NATURE

While in London this new year we went to two really interesting exhibitions.
The first at The Whitechapel Gallery, is called 'Urban Nature': Four seasons of events on art,nature and the city inspired by the Bloomsberg Commission: Guiseppe Penone, Jan-March 2013.
'Italian artist, Giuseppe Penone presents Spazio de Luce, a twelve metre bronze cast of a tree with a radiant gold-leaf interior specially conceived for the Whitechapel Gallery.Conceived around the structure of a tree-from roots to base, trunk to branch, it invites artists, activists, architects,philosopher and scientists to engage in four seasons of discussions and actions.'
      It is an intriguing and magical piece. It made me feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland peering down the golden hollow interior of this man-made tree, spiralling to its roots and to the infinity of the imagination.
Check the exhibition and programme out at www.whitechapelgallery.org

THE DARK EARTH & THE LIGHT SKY

This is the first really good play I've seen for a while. It is the story of Edward Thomas, a poet writing at the time of WW1, seen through the eyes of his wife, Robert Frost, Eleanor Farjeon and his father. It's an excellent script written by Nick Dear. I've just read the review by Michael Billington in the Guardian which nicely summarises much of my own views so rather than repeat less eloquently, I'm reproducing it below. It's made me keen to read Thomas's poetry.
Oh, Billington doesn't mention the superb lighting design by Peter Mumford. Peter lived in the same village and our children went to the same school. We've lost touch now but it's great to see he's still producing great work.

'.... Nick Dear overcomes the difficulties in this probing, intelligent piece about Edward Thomas, who produced a formidable body of work between 1914 and his death at Arras in 1917. Dear makes no attempt to disguise the jagged awkwardness of Thomas's depressive personality; what he does is explore the impulses that drove Thomas to write, in a way that makes you want to reread the poetry itself.
Avoiding the traps of the bio-play, Dear presents Thomas's life from multiple perspectives. To his free-spirited wife, Helen, appalled by his decision to enlist in the war in his late 30s, he was a source of anguished passion. To his mentor Robert Frost, who shared his vision of a poetic diction hewn from everyday speech, he was someone driven less by a death wish than a desire to test his own worth. To his adoring friend, Eleanor Farjeon, he was someone who found his inspiration in a harsh, accidental nature. But, although it offers a welter of explication, Dear's play leaves us free to make up our own minds about Thomas. What we see is a fractious figure who inspires great love, a cricket-loving traditionalist who becomes a poetic modern, a patriot who apparently seeks his own death. There's a perpetual mystery about Thomas that the play rightly never resolves.
Even if there is an ambivalence about Thomas's personality, there is absolute clarity to Richard Eyre's excellent production: against a Bob Crowley backcloth that beautifully reflects the shifting colours of an English sky, we witness Thomas's seemingly inexorable progress towards death. Pip Carter, as the poet, is both the obsessive note-taker about nature and a haunted figure communing with some unseen spirit. Hattie Morahan brilliantly conveys the fraught sensuality of his wife, and there is good support from Shaun Dooley as Frost and Pandora Colin as the devoted acolyte. By modern standards, it's a quiet play – but it poignantly reflects the contradictions of a poet whom Ted Hughes called "the father of us all".'

1. The Dark Earth and the Light Sky
2. Almeida,
3. London
4. Until 12 January
5. Box office:
   020-7359 4404
6. Full details

JENNY HAMES

My dear friend Jenny Hames died on 2nd January 2013 after a battle with cancer. We met in Athens in 1974, when we were both working there. She was the New Zealand consul and a very talented photographer. We made many trips together across Greece and had a lot of fun. A memorial service is being held at the end of January in Auckland.

 

A TRIBUTE TO JENNY HAMES

 

Terracotta and blue

define your memory.

Colours of earth, sky, sea

run through your veins,

germinate in your soul;

surface

as warmth, light, depth, vision,

and grow

in all that you are,

loved by all whom you know.

 

 Janet Daniel

2 January 2013