Monday 8 December 2014

CHRISTMAS BRASS BAND CONCERT

A permanent wave of silver hair rippled across the auditorium on Friday marking the start of the Christmas season for us. It was the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama's annual brass band concert at St David's Hall. A very jolly programme included Santa Claus-Trophobia, by Sandy Smith, A Christmas Fantasy by Gordon Langford, and tunes by James Last, Leroy Anderson and others with audience participation singing the usual popular carols. 
     All the students dressed up, decorated their instruments with gold and red tinsel, some wore santa  hats and reindeer ears. There were outstanding solo performances by Megan Alexander, Matthew Fletcher and Grant Jameson, conducted by Dr Robert Childs, a leading figure in the world of brass music. It was a really fun hour of entertainment.  The band will be playing again at the RWCMD this Friday, 12 December at 1.15pm. If you want cheering up, don't miss it!

Monday 1 December 2014

REMEMBERING AUGUST

On Friday we saw the duo Remembering August at Acapela Studios in Pentyrch. Jesse Hallett (vox piano and Luke Searle (vox, acoustic guitar and mouth organ) are both 19 and met studying music at Bridgend College. Although they were the support group to singer-songwriter Louise Latham, their original sounds, genuine emotions and beautiful harmonies made the evening special for us. They were launching their first EP, 'Brother.'  On the cover they state,
      'This is a collection of songs that express our emotions and feelings over the past six months. From loss of friendship, love and our relationship with each other. Through these songs we hope you will understand us a little more.'
     We wish them good luck. Acapela has an instinct for promoting quality and I'm sure we'll be hearing a lot more from them in the future. Where's Jools Holland's scout?

Wednesday 26 November 2014

TREE AID AFRICA


 A couple of weeks ago Rhys, my husband, took part in a local arts and craft market, selling his art work and raising money for Tree Aid Africa. He sold three paintings and a print, and donated 50% (£160) of the proceeds to this charity. We used to donate to the National Trust to offset our carbon foot print, then visited one of their Cardiff sites and found that it was a in a place of outstanding natural beauty. So, we looked for another smaller charity where our small donations may have more impact.
The following describes the organisation and is taken from their website.

TREE AID helps villagers living in the drylands of Africa unlock the potential of trees to reduce poverty and protect the environment.

“Two for One” – the TREE AID Philosophy

At TREE AID, we believe that tackling poverty and environmental protection are inseparable.
We help villagers in the drylands of Africa unlock the potential of trees to break this cycle of environmental decline and poverty. We help create self-reliance for poor communities building not only their chances of survival but also their dignity and respect.
At the same time, we help poor people invest in their environment, building its richness and health not just for today but for generations to come.
It’s what we call a “two for one” solution that breaks the cycle of poverty and environmental decline and offers a sustainable way forward for people across the Sahel.
Themes:
What we do – there are four key themes to our work which all our projects incorporate.

Access and rights

Securing long-term access to natural resources for the poor and making rules and regulations clear and enforceable ensures that they have confidence in and can benefit from protecting and enhancing those resources.

Looking after the environment

Building a greater understanding of how best to manage natural resources in order to protect and improve the environment, and making the benefits clear.

Nutrition and food security

Increasing crop yields and establishing an additional food supply from tree fruits helps poor communities produce more food, reducing hunger and malnutrition and increasing resilience in times of drought.

Enterprise and trade

Supporting the poor to develop income sources from the sale of non-wood tree products provides cash to spend on immediate needs and creates the means to invest in their families’ future.


Read more: http://www.treeaid.org.uk/about-us/what-we-do/#ixzz3KG6Dw0ba

Sunday 23 November 2014

GUITAR DUO: OLIVIER CHASSAIN & STEIN-ERIK OLSEN


Thursday night saw us sitting in a half empty auditorium to see a world premiere. Norwegian Stein-Erik Olsen and French Olivier Chassain performed the guitar compositions of Ida Presti  (1924-1967). The programme is described as a 'homage' to her and her husband, also a guitarist, Alexandre Lagoya. The duo are described as 'the foremost guitar duo of all times., and Ida Presti as 'the princess of the guitar.'
     
 Olsen and Chassain are a brilliant duo themselves, their virtuoso performances certainly honoured Ida's legacy. Pity that more people were n't there to enjoy and appreciate the performances.

       It would be good to hear a female duo play Ida's work. I wasn't sure if the lack of emotion (apart from in the last piece 'Etude fantastique')  was due to the composition, which even in 'La Hongrosie,' in memory of her mother, seemed to lack passion, or that Olsen and Chassain's interpretation was more intellectual than emotional.  Nevertheless, it was another very enjoyable evening at the Royal Welsh College for Music and Drama.

Monday 17 November 2014

THE IMITATION GAME

The Imitation Game is a 2014 British-American historical thriller film about British mathematician, logician, cryptanalyst and pioneering computer scientist Alan Turing, a key figure in cracking Nazi Germany's Enigma code that helped the Allies win World War II, only to later be criminally prosecuted for his homosexuality. It stars Benedict Cumberbatch as Turing, Keira Knightly as Joan, and is directed by Morten Tyldum with a screenplay by Graham Moore, based on the biography Alan Turing: The Enigma by Andrew Hodges.
     Cumberbatch's performance is awesome. He plays complex Turing with sensitivity, arrogance, a brilliant mind, and total autism in his relationships with his colleagues. 
        I'm not a fan of  Keira Knightly and I'm not sure how true the character of Joan is in the Turing story, but she is convincing as his fiancé willing to put up with Turing's homosexuality in order to  save him from criminal conviction and to enable the work of cracking the enigma code to continue. He knows it won't work. 
         There are really touching flashbacks to his childhood at boarding school, where he suffers horrendous bullying, has a close friendship (his only friend) with Christopher, who later dies of TB. Turing names the machine he creates after his friend. Later, it is called the Turing Machine, the first computer.
         Turing and his team crack the German's Enigma code, with 180 million million possible settings during the war but it was kept a secret as it was feared that the Germans would quickly invent another code just as impenetrable. In the process many lives were sacrificed to win the war. The team used calculus to help the War Office devise a strategy that would not raise the German's suspicions. It is said that cracking the Enigma code shortened the war by two years and saved 14million lives.
        Sadly, a few years after the war, Turing was convicted of indecent behaviour, and instead of prison was offered hormone treatment to cure his homosexual tendencies. This led to his eventual suicide. The Enigma code remained a secret for 50 years.

  Very highly recommended, The Imitation Game is on General Release now.

   

Thursday 13 November 2014

INTERSTELLAR & CULTURE SHIFT

Interstellar is a 2014 space adventure film directed by Christopher Nolan. Starring Matthew McConaughey, Anne Hathaway, Jessica Chastain, and Michael Caine, the film features a team of space travellers who journey through a wormhole in search of a new habitable planet. It was written by Jonathan Nolan and Christopher Nolan; Theoretical physicist Kip Thorne, whose work inspired the film, acted as both scientific consultant and executive producer.
           I saw the film the night before the launch of 'Culture Shift' and so the issues that the film raise were still floating around the following morning. The sense of 'apocalypse now' permeated the start of the launch with 'The re-enactment of art'- an interview with two artists by Suzi Goblik. In 1991 She wrote,
         "I suspect we are at the end of something-a hypermasculinised modern culture whose social projects have become increasingly unecological and nonsustainable."
         In the film, Interstellar, Michael Caine's character, the Head of NASA, says that human beings were not intended to save the planet, they were made to leave it. The film set a few decades in the future finds our planet choked by dust storms and ecological disasters, resources almost run out, the earth can no longer sustain our race. We follow explorers into space to find a place where we can all escape to, not as tourists but as emigrants. What is particularly moving to me is the exploration of what it is to be human, the attachments we need to survive, how we find our ways to adapt to loss, but the pain of separation can be unbearable. The relationship between father and daughter is especialy moving. Michael McConaughey's character, is brilliantly portrayed- an astronaut who has to leave his daughter, probably never to return-in order to save the human race.
          Topically, Caine's character quotes the Dylan Thomas poem, 'Do not go gently into that dark night,' about the death of his father, 'Rage rage against the dying of the light.'
          Coming back to the idea suggested by Suzi Gablik that we should always keep the image of apocalypse in our mind's eye, Interstellar certainly does that. To reaffirm the importance of both, here's another quote from the report, quoting Gablik.
         " It is precisely to the periphery and the margins that we must look, if we are to find the cores that will be central to our society in the future, for it is here that they will be found to be emerging."   

          Interstellar is on general release now.

Wednesday 12 November 2014

CULTURE SHIFT: How Artists are responding to Sustainability in Wales

Today I attended the launch of a report, 'Culture Shift' commissioned by the Arts Council of Wales. Sian Thomas, one of their officers involved, said that instead of their usual practice of buying-in consultants, they decided to commission artists; 'Change the process, Change the outcome.' Well, how revolutionary is that? However, they would only pay for the lunch at Chapter for the participants (and very delicious it was too), but all the contributing artists had to give their time free. There were no summaries of the report available, presumably there was no money for those either. The Chief Executive, Nick Capaldi, their Chief Exec since 2008 had his eyes closed through most of the presentations once he'd done his own. Tiring job getting paid to go to conferences. I had no sense in his presentation that he was passionate about the issues although he talked the talk. Once he is obliged by law to put sustainability to centre stage, perhaps he'll be different. In some ways, the issue of sustainability is not dissimilar to where the issue of equal status for the Welsh Language was some thirty odd years ago. Not that he spoke a word of Welsh, not even a Croeso or a Diolch. Neither did Doug Eagle, the Director of Chapter. On the other hand Poet, Activist and Welsh learner, Emily Hinshelwood put us all to shame with a real effort to convey her message through Cymraeg. Her own story and her poem about her journey across Wales, asking everyone she met three questions about climate change, was the best bit of the morning. She is one of Wales' most influential and committed community arts leaders around sustainability issues and the arts, although she would never describe herself so. She literally and metaphorically walks the walk. There is a bill going before the Welsh Assembly drafted in association with Cynnal Cymru (Sustainability Wales) entitled, 'The Well-being of future generations.' This will make it legally binding for public bodies to get their act together and their policies, behaviours and goals will also be audited by the Welsh Audit Office and a Commissioner. Furthermore, there's a community initiative that is inviting individuals and groups to be part of a national conversation-'The Wales we want'. It was a real pity that there were no presentations in the morning session on the results of the research. Without summaries or copies of the report to hand it was therefore difficult to have much engagement with the audience. However, the report does make interesting reading and is a very important milestone in mapping what is happening in Wales. I was unclear by the end of the morning session how the results will be taken forward. I guess, the afternoon workshops may have addressed that, but I decided I couldn't afford the time. Instead, went off for a walk in the woods, re-motivated to put the environment back to the centre of my own writing,work and art. To upload the report see http://www.emergence-uk/wp-content/uploads/CULTURE-SHIFT

Monday 10 November 2014

WHO ARE YOU? GRAYSON PERRY AT THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY


This weekend I visited the new Grayson Perry exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. I'd really enjoyed the three Channel 4 TV programmes that explore the complex issue of identity in Britain today. Fourteen portraits of individuals, families and groups, including politician Chris Huhne, a young female-to-male transsexual, Northern Ireland Loyalist marchers and X-Factor contestant Rylan Clark, have been inserted into the Gallery’s nineteenth and twentieth century rooms on Floor 1.
           As a transvestite artist he comes to this subject in a non-judgemental way, his subjects warm to him and are on the whole surprised and delighted by the end result; a portrait in tapestry, a hijab, ceramic fertility goddesses, a relic chest, a rock band poster, a pot inscribed and decorated with meaningful imagery of his subjects. There is a self portrait as an internal map or landscape, a bit like the medieval Mappa Mundi, where Jerusalem was the centre of our universe, his centre are his values, beliefs and concerns. What is particularly interesting in this exhibition is the way in which his art works are juxtaposed with other portraits and artefacts.
           What I particularly like about Grayson is his down-to earth questioning approach, his wry humour, and his craftsmanship. And of course his flamboyant alter ego Claire, who wears some great frocks.  He can draw too! (Take note Tracy Emin)
          I am currently reading his book, based on the 2013 BBC Reith lectures he presented earlier this year, entitled, 'Playing to the Gallery: helping contemporary art  in its struggle to be understood,' and it is a really good read.  He is guest editor for the October 10-16 2014 issue of The New Statesman, a special issue on the Great White Male.'(That's the straight, white, middle-class men who dominate our culture(and politics)' 
         One question he asks us his audience, is to think of one word that gives us an immediate clue to how we define our own identity. I found this quite difficult; would it be woman, feminist,working class, rebel, socialist, binge eater, cynic, mother, wife, counsellor, writer? Although I might be all these things in parts, which is my immediate response? I think it would probably be human being. What would yours be?


Grayson Perry: Who Are You? is a series of three sixty-minute films broadcast this autumn on Channel  4. The Exhibition is on at the National Portrait Gallery until 15 March 2015. Admission free.

Tuesday 4 November 2014

CARDIFF CONTEMPORARY FESTIVAL 4 -PARADISE LOST

I was so pleased to catch the last day of this exhibition, held at the dilapidated and beautiful Customs & Immigration Building on Bute Street.
' Paradise Lost unites established and emerging artists in one of Cardiff's most iconic disused buildings. Painting, video, installation, sculpture, photography and live performance respond to the unique setting'...'in a fully immersive art experience organised by the great tactileBOSCH collective in celebration of the memory of Kim Fielding.'

     The building itself offers an atmospheric backdrop to some very creepy and creative installations. Artists' names and the titles of exhibits weren't always obvious or were missing, so it's hard to credit  individuals. One of the curators said that the organisers thought that the overall title, 'Paradise Lost,' was enough. They didn't want to be prescriptive and to let the viewer bring their own imagination and thinking to the piece.  It was a helpful starting point, but some of the installations needed more to guide my imagination. My friend said that the problem for the untrained in conceptual art is to assess what's really good and what is not. As we struggled to understand what the artist was trying to say, I found myself leaning back on my emotional responses to the pieces, which are of course also important.  I found myself appreciating pieces, such as the giant woodcut prints that involved traditional skills and were beautifully crafted.  I found myself really wanting to be fair and not dismiss a piece because I couldn't make intellectual sense of it, but installations that seemed like a random collection of objects without guidance, didn't help me take the artist seriously, and for me that's a real missed opportunity for both of us.
       Having said all that I did enjoy the exhibition it was stimulating, I am still left wondering about some of the exhibits, and the images are still floating about my mind and senses, such as the chimney sweep brushes, blue umbrellas, and newspaper clippings of teaching vacancies in one exhibit, the pit pony, stamping on a copy of Private Eye's front page with a photo of Arthur Scargill with a loud speaker, and a bible with moral questions inserted, such as,''Would you kill Hitler's mother?'   I suppose you would need to know Kim Fielding well to understand  the significance of a pile of wooden parquet blocks juxtaposed with two pint glasses and a cocktail glass balanced on the wall. I can only guess.

CARDIFF CONTEMPORARY FESTIVAL 3 - THE BAROQUE CELLO PROJECT

'The Baroque Cello Project is a sound and video installation  centred on a newly finished hand-crafted Baroque cello celebrating the discarded  the underheard  the nevernoticed.'
      Leona Jones (artist), Sion Dafydd Dawson (musician), Adam Winskill (luthier) and Jeff Chapman(video) collaborated in this project. The performance at the Arcade in St David's Centre was intriguing and moving. Sion had commissioned Adam to make him a cello, of maple and spruce. Leona collected all the sounds that would normally go unnoticed in the making of the cello; the marine roar of the wind in the woods, waterfalls, the planing of wood in the workshop, the flutter of wood shavings, tapping and banging of tools, running water. She re-enacted some of these sounds and movements in a kind of dance echoed by the beautiful sounds produced by Sion, creating  a kind of baroque improvisation, although I'm sure it was all carefully scripted.
        At the end of the performance we were introduced to the young luthier (I'd never heard that word before), Adam. It was the first cello he's made since leaving college. It is a wonderful piece of  art, most beautifully crafted with a personality of its own.  The whole project is awesome.
There's still a chance to see the performance on Friday 7 November 1-1.30pm.
 See baroquecelloproject.com.    arcadecardiff.co.uk


Monday 3 November 2014

CARDIFF CONTEMPORARY FESTIVAL 2

I hadn't given up. This Saturday (Nov 1st) I met up with a friend, and we started at The 'Stute on Wood St., the festival's social centre.' It is a public space, a gallery, a library, a meeting place, a reading room, a games room, an information point, and a conversation.' The staff were incredibly helpful.  We walked over a deep-pile cream shaggy wall to wall carpet to enquire if we could get a cup of coffee, as we could see through the plate glass window people sitting round with cups in their hand. It seemed that it was the Breakfast Club that was just finishing, but were advised that we could get a free cup of coffee  at Free Mountain/Goat Major Projects a few doors down. I worried about the impact of all those visitors on the cream shaggy pile, but noted Jemima Brown's clever and beautifully made piece, called, 'Peace Camp' (small  latex dolls based on real characters from Greenham Common, and artefacts used at the time, such as lamps, camping  stoves, towels and blankets.)  I wanted to look at the exhibit in more detail,but caffeine's call was stronger and off we went to Free Mountain.
      As we entered a friendly man, snuffling with a cold, clutching a lap top, asked us if we'd come for 'the casting.' It seemed harsh to say we'd come for the free coffee, but were up for an adventure.  He explained what was happening while he sniffed and tasted the milk, and poured us each a big cardboard cup of a hot brew.
      'Free Mountain is a place to escape the rigours of the city, open to all as a place of relaxation, contemplation and community activity, with the mountain as a backdrop for a programme of activity in its foothills'...' to explore the idea of a mountain-ecologically, spiritually and as a metaphor.'      
      Richard told us that for example, it would give bus drivers a chance to chill out and try something new.
       Richard introduced us to a sculptor who would help us make our own plaster cast mountain, with our aspirations written on a post-it note and buried in its heart. It would be something we could paint or decorate at home. After we'd made our mountains, more the size of mole hills, we sat on bean bags, gossiped, drank our coffee, gazed at the mountain on the wall, and waited for our casts to dry. We loved the  experience.         As we left Richard was telling another group about the bus drivers.
       Next stop was 'Outcasting Fourth Wall,' a couple doors down in a renovated shop. It is the first artists' moving image festival for Cardiff.  We needed more time to appreciate the video we saw about what goes onto the cutting-room floor in the making of the news, in this case a programme about the NHS. Also, we didn't want to miss Leona Jones' The Baroque Cello Project.' But more about that in the next episode.

There are events all this week at Free Mountain til the 9th of November 2014.
 See www.goatmajorprojects.com

        

CARDIFF CONTEMPORARY FESTIVAL 1


Cardiff Contemporary is a citywide festival celebrating contemporary visual culture. The theme for this, the third year, is Reveal/Conceal, and is made possible by the efforts of a huge number of artists and organisations, with funding from the City Council and the Arts Council.
       Last Sunday (26 October) we set out to see some of the free art around the city centre. The first stop was the Castle, where we were promised an installation by Richard Woods and a sonic clock tower experience by Richard James and R Seiliog. Although we could see the installation at the entrance we were asked to pay the £14 entrance fee to go into the grounds. The sonic tower was a happening at 5pm, and it was just mid-day. You didn't have to enter the Castle to hear the seven sound pieces, so we decided to abandon the Castle and move on.
       We moved towards the station to see the One Minute Sculptures by Erwin Wurm. Nobody in the Station seemed to know anything about them, even the Information desk was baffled. Eventually, one of the ticket collectors gave us the nod. We should have read the programme more carefully. They are large photographs of one minute sculptures on the walls outside, partially obscured by the taxi rank; a man with a face made of stationery objects from his desk, a woman with a bucket balanced at a jaunty angle on her head, a man upside down in a cardboard box, that sort of thing.  
        On route we saw a young man sitting in a container opposite St David's Hall, and popped our head in. There was a photograph of a large Spillers biscuit. We were interested to learn that Spillers had made ship biscuits for decades, as well as dog food. This study by Alex Rich was about our maritime heritage. We would have liked to have seen more, but we missed them, walking the wrong way. So we walked towards the g39 gallery off City Road, which had been working with Alex on the project:'Reflections Towards a Well-tempered Environment.' Unfortunately, the g39 isn't open on a Sunday, but our programme didn't tell us that.
       We decided not to walk back to Wood St, where lots more art was to be revealed or concealed. Instead we took a cultural walk up City Road, where art of a different sort, colourful, international, popular, commercial, delighted us with its colours, designs and smells.
     

THE DISAPPEARANCE


I peered at the empty space. ‘The Birth of St David’, a painting inspired by his birthplace at St. Non’s on the Pembrokeshire coast, wasn’t in its usual place, above the mantle shelf in my son’s room. There was just a grimy smudged outline of where the frame had been. I made a mental note of the wall needing painting .Perhaps my husband who’d painted the picture, would know. It was n’t like his usual style. It was dark like most of his work, but more semi-abstract than his usual landscapes with splashes of jade green and cobalt blue. A distant glimmer of white light had lifted it, giving it a sense of mystery, of the spiritual. When he’d first painted it I thought it was based on the temples of Angkor Wat that we had recently visited; tropical lush, roots and branches weaving their limbs around the ancient remains. But no, he wasn’t aware of that he’d said. It was the place itself that had inspired him. Yes, Madoc must have moved it.

        But on questioning he denied all knowledge of moving the painting. He rarely goes into our son’s room since the accident. Whereas me, I spend a lot of time there, laying on Dewi’s bed, gazing at the painting, thinking about him as he was, as an active little boy.  I went back up to the room, and checked the wardrobe, the drawers, even under the bed. Then I scoured the other rooms in our tiny terraced house. I looked out into the back yard.  I had become forgetful since the accident, but surely I would have remembered putting it in the outside cwtch. Not there. Not in the garage.  I went out further into the garden, stalked through the unmown wet grass and into the shed which was my husband’s studio. At first glance, nothing.  I felt my throat dry and the back of my neck shiver. I was starting to panic, flipping through his canvases stacked up for his next exhibition, rummaging through his prints, pulling out drawers. Nothing. I had a thought. Perhaps there’s been a burglary? Has anything else gone missing? I rushed out of the studio, and back up the garden into the house.

    ‘Find it?’ Madoc yawned.

    No,’ I replied. ‘It’s very weird. Is there anything else missing? Perhaps we’ve had a burglary?’ 

   ‘Yeah, and perhaps it was an art thief.’

   ‘Don’t mock me, Madoc.’

       I always use his full name if I want to get the upper hand. He hates it. But the shortened version irritates him too. I turned and ran back upstairs checking our bedroom, my jewellery box, not that I had much that was valuable, more sentimental; Mother’s wedding ring, my engagement ring, an old pearl and emerald necklace given to me by my late aunt, Non.  All there. Lap top, i pad, a small wad of cash in an envelope for emergencies in a tin hidden up in the fireplace. All present and correct. Perhaps Mad was right. I’d just read Donna Tartt’s novel, ‘The Goldfinch’, which involved the theft of a painting by the Dutch artist, a student of Rembrandt. What was his name? Fab, fab, Fabritius, that’s it. Carel Fabritius.  

    ‘I’m flattered, but I hardly think we’re in the same league, do you? ‘ my husband said, as he yawned again and turned on the TV.  ‘I’m sure It will turn up. There must be an entirely rational explanation. Can we watch the news now?’

     ‘You’re probably right,’ I said, sitting down on the sofa, as Huw Edwards appeared on the screen.

     There’s news just breaking. The spring that is said to be the birthplace of St David, born in a thunderstorm in the sixth century, has disappeared suddenly, overnight. The ground around the spot is barren and dry as if the spring never existed. Experts are puzzled and looking for scientific explanations. Local people are asking whether this is work of the devil, trying to deny the existence of the saint, and are afraid of the consequences for their city. We will bring you further news once we have it.       Now, onto the rest of today’s news…’

 

 

Janet Daniel, November 3 2014.

SHRINKING SHINGLES



It seems that the devil's claw is really losing its grip. In the past week, although still quite tired at times, I haven't felt its porcupine needles tapping me on the shoulder blade or a hedgehog blow to my heart. I think I'm nearly back to normal, whatever that may be in my case. I certainly feel more energised and motivated. Thanks to all my friends, family and well wishers, who've shown their support and care during this past three months. It's meant a lot. Diolch yn fawr.

Friday 31 October 2014

FROM THE MOORS TO MAMETZ


 

 
Gwen brushed a strand of straggling hair away from her face. She was perspiring. Her long skirts were muddy and wet, clinging to her legs.  She’d been out on the bog for what seemed like hours. Her back ached. She could do with a cup of tea, but Mrs Read was a hard task mistress.

        ’ Get your backs into it girls,’ she’d shouted. ‘Our lads are doing their best in France. We don’t want to let them down, do we?’

       ‘It’s not as if I’m getting paid,’ she thought, and looked over at the forty women, pulling out clumps of soggy sphagnum moss from the bog. There were some elderly men, some who’d fought in the Boer War, now too old to fight, but willing volunteers in gathering moss for the war effort.

       It was mid summer, there was a weak drizzle and the light was fading. Gwen looked up at the Victorian towers of Princetown Prison rising out of the moor, and shuddered. ‘This place gives me the creeps,’ she said to herself. Then her thoughts turned as they often did to John, her fiancé. He’d been one of the first from the 8th Devonshire Regiment to be sent out to the battlefields. ‘I wonder what he’s doing at this moment? It can’t be any worse than this.’ ‘Silly girl!’ she heard him reply, and saw his smiling green eyes, just like in the photo he’d sent her of himself in uniform. ’I miss you, Gwen,’ they said. ‘I miss you, oh so much, John, ‘she muttered, and plunged her hand back into the slimy peat and pulled out a clump of gold sphagnum moss.  I will write tonight, my love. Promise.’

        It was almost dusk by the time the volunteers had reached the prison officers’ lawn tennis court.  The drizzle had stopped and the air was steamy.

      ‘Empty your bags, and we’’ll rake the moss so it can dry,’ Mrs Read said.’ Well Done, girls. Good work. Your sweethearts would be proud of you.’

      It had been the Germans who had first thought of using sphagnum moss for wound dressings, although it had been used since ancient times. The Vikings are said to have used it for nappies and sanitary protection. Its antiseptic properties and ability to absorb fluids up to 20 times its weight made it a viable alternative to using cotton dressings, which were expensive and difficult to come by. It was estimated that 50 million sphagnum wound dressings would be needed during World War 1.

    ‘I need you to work inside today, Gwen,’ Mrs Read said the following morning, as she handed over a white uniform. ‘Heard anything from that fiancée of yours lately?’ she asked. Gwen’s anxious face gave Mrs Read her answer.

     Tears aren’t going to help the war effort,’ she chided. Then more warmly, the older woman put her arm around Gwen’s shoulder. ‘We’re all in the same boat, dear. I haven’t heard from George or Harry for a while. We just have to believe-and pray- that God will look after them. Come on, work helps. And imagine, God forbid, if John was hurt or wounded, it could be one of your dressings that saves his life.’

     ‘Thanks, Mrs Read,’ Gwen said, as she twiddled her tiny diamond engagement ring around her finger, thinking ‘Bloody useless war.’

The moss had been moved into the house by some of the men, and was heated by the hot air from a furnace. The sphagnum was no longer green or gold. It was the colour of hay. It reminded Gwen of happier times, haymaking, when she and John had first met. She joined a group of women who had already started picking over the moss, removing twigs and bits of debris from its soft masses. It gave them a chance to gossip, share news of the war, and of loved ones.  Later it would be passed through a purifying solution by a worker wearing rubber gloves, squeezed through a mangle, and dried again. Dartmoor was the biggest centre in England for the collection and processing of sphagnum for wound dressings. The Prince of Wales himself would later visit and applaud their efforts. But now, was the part in the process that brought the reality of war home to Gwen, the making of the dressings themselves. Each dressing consisted of two ounces of moss, packed into a small flat muslin bag.  The bag would be folded and stitched.  Holding these little packages, she tried not to think of their consequent use. Later once perfected, dressings were made into packets of a dozen each, wrapped in papers for overseas, packed in bales of a hundred and covered in waterproof sheeting, ready for despatch.

       Gwen was forcing dried sphagnum into a muslin bag, her letter to John in the pocket of her white uniform, ready to post, when the news came through on the volunteers’ grapevine.  July 1st 1916. 163 men from 8th and 9th Devonshire Regiment killed, and many more injured in the battle for Mametz.  John’s name among the casualties.

MR. TURNER

On general release from yesterday, I was really looking forward to this much awaited new Mike Leigh film about the life of the artist, JMW Turner-Billy to his family-well known for his marine landscapes and his watery sunsets. Timothy Spall's depiction of the character is full of depth, humour, bad temper, love, loss, sex,, meanness and pathos, but at times he does overdo the grunting.
        The narrative starts with Billy already a well established painter at the Royal Academy, doing commissions for the gentry and the aristocracy. He takes two years over a painting for the Queen, who doesn't like its wishy-washy effects. In later work his colleagues at the Academy think his defused sunsets are down to his failing eyesight.  His relationship with his father, who he calls 'Daddy', is very moving and we learn that Billy was abandoned by his mother, who he describes as a 'lunatic'. His relationships with his wife and grown up daughters are mystifying. He denies their existence. He has sex with his niece and assistant, who clearly adores him. But why does the actress play the character like Baldrick from BlackAdder?
        I love Mike Leigh's work and the actors he uses is like a repertoire company of old friends. They are all very adaptable and quirky. His strength is in his characters;their feelings and relationships. But in this film, like some of his others, his weakness lies in the overall  lack of tension, and some of the narrative feels repetitive and in need of editing.
        I would have liked to have known more about Turner's earlier life, his struggles and the influences on him. I think more may have been made of his relationship with Constable. Who was the painter Hayden who he has an on-going barney with? I'd never heard of him. The best bit that gave me insight into how Turner was able to put truthful emotion, experience and passion of the elements into his sea/skyscapes, was seeing him strapped to the birds nest of a sailing ship in a Force ten gale in winter.
      I would definitely recommend the film that no doubt will win Timothy Spall many accolades. Apparently it took seven years to make, and during that time Spall learnt to draw and paint for the part.  Mr Turner is in cinemas now.

Wednesday 29 October 2014

IN TIME O' STRIFE & THE COMMON MAN

The National Theatre of Scotland's production at the Sherman on Saturday night brought a standing ovation. The story is set in Fife, during the miners' strike of 1926, making links to the 30th anniversary of the miners strike of 1984/5. Joe Corrie, the writer was a miner himself. He wrote plays 'to raise money for the soup kitchens whilst they were locked out of the pits until they accepted lower wages for longer hours. The flyer states,
        ' Driven by live, gutsy, folk punk songs and intense, full-blooded choreography, this uncompromising production is a stark reminder that class conflict between those at the bottom of the social heap and those in power is perennial.'
         The production is certainly powerful, the music and dancing thrilling and  give real emphasis to the story. My only quibble is that the script would benefit from editing, and the actors find it difficult to achieve different levels of contrast. More moments of reflection and silence would add to the tension. Accents are sometimes difficult to understand when lines are sped through. But overall, a very interesting and moving performance.
       As a member involved in the Pontardawe community production, FALL OUT '84', (see earlier blogs), the theme of the struggle of the common man and woman  is one that always resonates. Here is a poem, written by Joe Corrie, that is recited by the performers,' In Time O' Strife.'


I AM THE COMMON MAN
I AM THE BRUTE AND THE SLAVE
I AM THE FOOL, THE DESPISED
FROM THE CRADLE TO THE GRAVE

I AM THE HEWER OF COAL
I AM THE TILLER OF SOIL
I AM THE SERF OF THE SEAS
BORN TO BEAR AND TO TOIL

I AM THE BUILDER OF HALLS
I AM THE DWELLER OF SLUMS
I AM THE FILTH AND THE SCOURGE
WHEN WINTER'S DEPRESSION COMES

I AM THE FIGHTER OF WARS
I AM THE KILLER OF MEN
NOT FOR A DAY OR AN AGE
BUT AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN




JTD, October 29 2014.

Wednesday 8 October 2014

WEDDING POEM IN CELEBRATION OF THE MARRIAGE OF ANGHARAD & CHARLIE 4 OCTOBER 2014

 
 
TRIATHLON
 
 
I’ve been looking for you
 
Leaping up coal-mountain’cline
descending through bell-woods
in mottled sunshine, sniffing
pursuing your smell, sprinting
over rocks of stone-lime
minted in parsnip, campion and time
 
I’ve been looking for you
 
Jumping in pools of jade moss, crossing
waters of jasmine and alabaster
monitor lizards rapping tails
in tropical lush, rushing
through clouds of wild bees
in serpentine dreams
 
I’ve been looking for you
 
Spurting forth on two wheels, pedalling
spinning in gales of Force Ten
through continents, cities,
roads with U bend, aching
eyes down, head-strong
until the ocean’s in view
 
I’ve been looking for you
 
Plunging into the deep, gurgling
like gannets diving for fish, drawing
breath from the slipstream, making
a wish, arriving
at the place where all soul mates meet
and know they’ve been found, murmuring
 
I’ve been looking for you.
 
 
 Janet Teal Daniel


Tuesday 7 October 2014

IN THE BLOOD


IN THE BLOOD

 

The candle flickered in the silver-plated candlestick in the Giant Tipi filled with family and friends celebrating my daughter’s wedding. As we waited for her and her father to arrive, I looked into the flame and had a sudden flashback to my husband’s Modryb Anne and the story of the candlesticks and the Polecat.

       It was the late 1940s, and Modryb Anne lived on a farm in rural Wales. On Saturdays my in-laws would visit for tea. While the adults gossiped, their young son sat transfixed in front of a glass box,staring at a stuffed polecat devouring a blooded blackbird. Modryb Anne promised Rhys that ‘after she had gone’ she’d leave it to him. When she became ill, his parents visited more frequently and cared for her. No other relatives visited.  She died in her cottage, surrounded by her beautiful Welsh oak furniture. At the reading of the will, indeed Modryb Anne had kept to her word, and left Rhys her beloved polecat. To his parents who’d spent so much time caring for her in her dying months, she left two candlesticks. To the family who never visited she left the oak dresser and the other valuable items of her small estate.

       Fast forward thirty years. Rhys and I met in the Barry Summer School and a few months later were married in a registry office in Pontypridd with just four guests. We had both been travelling and had little savings. Soon into our marriage we were scratching around for items we might sell to help pay the bills. The polecat and the blackbird sat in their fixed tableau in the corner of our cottage. ‘It’s going to have to go,’ Rhys said.  And off it went to London  under his arm, doing the rounds of the Portobello Road market. But Londoners weren’t interested in stuffed animals from rural Wales, and Rhys came back, with mixed feelings.

     ‘You don’t have to sell it,’ I said. I’m sure we can find something else.’ But he was adamant. Off he went to Cardiff, to do the rounds of the antique shops. After a morning of rejections, he found himself in a shop in Pontcanna.

       ‘It’s the blood. People don’t like blood on their taxidermy,’ the owner told him.’

       ‘But it’s nature. It’s real,’ replied Rhys. ‘

       ‘It may be real to you, but the average punter likes their stuffed animals, bloodless. Owls. Owls are popular.’

        ‘I don’t have an owl.’

         ‘Sorry, mate. Then I can’t help you.’

As Rhys got to the door of the shop he bumped into another customer.

         ‘Oh no. You’ve beaten me to it. I’ve been looking everywhere for a polecat.’

         ‘I haven’t bought it, I’m selling it.’

         ‘You can’t do that.’ The owner said. ‘I want a cut.’

         ‘Stuff you!’ said Rhys, handing the glass box over to the buyer in exchange for cash.

 There was a roar in the Tipi and I came back to the present as Rhys entered, not with a polecat, but with our beautiful daughter on his arm. The candle in the silver-plated candlestick holder gave me a giant wink.

 

Janet Daniel

October 6 2014.

Wednesday 1 October 2014

CABINET OF CURIOSITY

Creative Writing in the Museum, a weekly university class, started again last week. We are looking at collections in the museum from the perspective of  works of art. Homework was to describe our own cabinet of curiosity. I'm not really a collector of things, so I took a different stance.

Open the door to a dancing girl
in a polka-dot dress in Notting Hill,
on a blood-sloshed street, where race riots swell.
A sticky rock, with ‘Londoner’ written through
despite forty years with a different crew
of Welsh adoptees. Around the rock
a hospital bangle with a baby’s grip,
a first shoe, a mousy lock.
A puff of clove-scented smoke crackling holes
in a father’s tweedy gaze.
A vial of Spetses sea  sparkling
in an ouzo haze , its azure light warding off
the evil eye. A snatch of Atlantic sky sweeping
cross a caravan floor, musty, cramped,
perfect holidays for a family of four.
A painting of roots, a husband’s smile,
a wedding  ring, a home-made birthday card,

A space

made ready for the final objet d’art-
a mother’s  urn, green and red,  a ceramic hip-
long past it’s wear-by date.

Janet Daniel
September 26 2014

Saturday 27 September 2014

SHINGLES SAGA: WEEK 6 REVISED


A twist of tears, like a blue bag in a crisp packet.
Breast, sea-salt sore, rubbing
at its shore line.
No baby’s lips to draw down
the swell but milkless tit.
Shoulder, pummelled, hot needled like sun burn,
sitting clogged, heavy on the ocean floor.  
A thousand nerve endings swimming,
jangling loose like a jelly fish sting
from a raw and sodden heart,
shivering in grief.

Not terminal

Friday 26 September 2014

SHINGLES SAGA- WEEK 6

A twist of tears, like a blue bag in a crisp packet.
a breast, sea-salt sore, rubbing.
a back, hot needled.
a thousand nerve endings jangling,
dangling loose in a raw and sodden heart,
shivering in grief.

Not terminal, 

Monday 22 September 2014

PRIDE: The FILM

'Pride shows how disparate groups of gay and lesbian people were inspired by Ashton, a gay man from Portrush in County Antrim, who was an active member of the Young Communist League, a fact overlooked in the film, apparently so as not to alienate American audiences.
With a soundtrack that features the Smiths and Billy Bragg, the uplifting film is in the mould of Billy Elliot, Brassed Off and The Full Monty. But it is only when the credits roll that viewers learn the fate of Ashton, to whom the Communards' Jimmy Somerville paid tribute in his song, For a Friend. "I´ll never let you down, a battle I have found," Somerville sings. "And all the dreams we had, I will carry

'Money raised for the miners was seen as a declaration against Thatcherism but it was also a corrective to the power base of the president of the National Union of Miners, Arthur Scargill, who had determined that any funds raised in the US and London in support of strikers should go to his favoured pits in Yorkshire and Kent, leaving south Wales to fend for itself. Finding groups sympathetic to their plight was therefore crucial to the mining communities not favoured by Scargill.

"We sought to broaden the struggle beyond the picket lines to what we called an anti-Thatcher broad democratic alliance," recalled Hywel Francis, MP for Aberavon, and a former member of the Communist party, who helped forge links between the gay community and Welsh miners.
By January 1985 there were 11 LGSM groups around the country. Ashton died just two years later but he lived long enough to see his dream that gay rights should become part of the political agenda realised. The 1985 Labour party conference saw a motion to support equal rights for gay men and lesbians go down to the wire. It was carried only due to the block votes of the National Union of Mineworkers and its allies.'
Quoted from James Doward's review in the Guardian of 21 September 2014.

What Doward does not report in this article is the prejudice first met by the London lesbians and gays support group from the striking South Wales miners, and which was prevalent at the time in Valleys communities. At first the miners committees refused to accept their help. They did not want the association. It is not entirely clear in the film how support gathered momentum.' The Lesbian and Gays Support the Miners' challenged the prejudice, and showed themselves to be a mixed band, with the charismatic, communist Ashton at the forefront making the links between the oppression felt by both groups.

I absolutely loved the film, found it empowering, moving, funny, and uplifting. My daughter (aged 3/4 at the time of the strike) thought it 'Unoriginal clichéd rubbish.'  She'd seen Billy Elliot some years ago, and thought  the theme had been done. Perhaps it's because my husband and I lived through and supported the strike in small ways, and I had been involved in 'FALL OUT 84' (see earlier blog entry) this summer, that the film spoke to me, with some great performances; specially from Imelda Staunton and Bill Nighy.

Why not see for yourself what you think? It's currently on general release.

Wednesday 17 September 2014

SHINGLES SAGA

Week 5. As time goes on I'm learning that lots of people of around my age have had shingles recently. Can that be a coincidence? I know it's more prevalent in the over 60s. But almost everyone my husband or I have spoken to have had it within the past two years. It's not infectious-except if you haven't had chicken pox, then you could catch chicken pox from my shingles. One friend told me that once the rash had faded, the nerve pain went on for two years. TWO YEARS!
        At the weekend I made a decision to stop taking the medication. It wasn't working and making my whole system upset. Since then, although my nights are still mixed, I am starting to pick up. Yesterday I went out for the first walk I've had for five weeks. Although wiped out afterwards, it felt like a big achievement. I was wondering if I was starting to become agoraphobic.
        I have been back at work for three weeks, seeing on average 8 or 9 clients a week, in the afternoons and evening. That has helped me to focus outside myself for part of the day. I've always told my clients that you may not ' feel'  like doing anything when you're ill or low, but the very act of doing something, however small, generates its own energy and can help you start recovery. How glib my clients must have thought me! I now personally know how hard it is to take that first step when you feel so wretched. I hope this experience will make me less glib and more appreciative of my clients' difficulties.
        I've learnt a lot about myself and those close to me during this testing time. I know not to assume people don't care if they don't text or call you back! I probably have unrealistic expectations of some people. People have busy lives and their own problems. But also, there is a tendency to overly rely on technology for communication. It can let you down. In one case it almost stymied a close relationship. But, thankfully that's been mended after a couple of healing conversations. I can't thank my husband enough for the care and love he has shown during this time. He deserves a medal putting up with my grumps and humps, listening, feeding and caring for me.
        Writing has been my other constant companion throughout this episode. It's a pity that  'Writers in the Park' inspired so little interest. However, there may be the possibility of a more informal group starting up locally.
           I now need to move forward, manage the pain for however long it may last, take up my interests and re-enter the world of the well.
          This may not be the last episode, but here's the latest of Shingles Saga.
 
   'You still here,? I asked her at 4am, as she used her pin cushion to prick me awake.
   'I'm here for the long haul,' she replied, pressing my ribs.
   'You are so cliched,' I said.
   'Well, you taught me how,' she replied, poking me in the back with a sharp needle.
   'Can't we call a truce?'
   'Not quite yet', she said. We'll have to see how the Scottish Referendum turns out first.'
     
 

Thursday 11 September 2014

SUFFERING AND ART

One of my oldest friends, who I've quoted before, gave me some feedback today on my writing. 'One thing about this illness,' she said, 'It's got you producing some good writing.'
        It got me thinking.  Did she mean that my writing was mediocre or just not very good before, or has being in this state sent me into a realm of experience that by its very nature opens a door to produce more intense art?  better art?  
       You hear of artists suffering for their art. I've always thought that referred to the artist in the garret, skiving off others, on a diet of baguettes, clove cigarettes and illicit love affairs.
       But on another tack what hard work it is to produce a good piece of art, creative writing, a musical composition. For some, art is a form of relaxation. That's never been the case for me in my relationship to writing. I find it's very hard work to write.  And very hard work to persevere. Hope to ever get it out in the public eyes starts to fade when rejection emails fall into the inbox, or there's no response at all (perhaps worse).  That no longer matters so much to me, as it's the act of writing that enables me to reflect, express, and explore all manner of ideas and feelings.
       One of my friends at the Pontardawe  Script Cafe never edits anything, and I have to say her scripts are often original, funny and fresh. She goes with her muse. Writing doesn't seem like hard work to her. So is it just me?
       But what about suffering as a source for art? Clearly many writers and artists dig deep into their own pain- psychological, emotional and physical- and those sources of suffering can produce masterpieces that move and inspire viewers. readers audiences. The artist's suffering can universalize and normalize the human condition.   Johnson ( the writer, not Boris!) said something about writing helping him to enjoy and endure life.
       My attempt to set up, 'Writers in the Park' a local writing for well-being group, due to start next week, has had very little interest, and it's free! Perhaps it's because it's free, people don't think it can be any good. There's still a week to go. Still possible.
        In the meantime, if you've been following the Shingles saga here's a very short episode, fresh from last night.

 She peeped round the door of the bedroom. It was still dark. My eyes wouldn't open.
     'How's the bed of sea salt and granulated sugar?' she asked, as she slipped back into bed with        me. I tried to push her away, but it seems she's very comfortable with the current sleeping arrangements.

I'd love to hear what you think about  suffering and the artist.
       
       
   

Sunday 7 September 2014

SHINGLES DAY 28


It's feeling like ground-hog day. Although the porridge eruptions have diminished and the rash is fading, the pain that runs through my nervous system goes on and on. The painkillers aren't helping. In fact they're giving me stomach ache. It is now nearly four weeks.
Today, I decided I needed to do something different rather than laying in bed and feeling sorry for myself. A friend sent me a card with a suffragette's photo. The caption read,
'Things are getting worse. Send more chocolate.'
Taking a tip from what I tell my clients, I'm trying to practice a bit of mindfulness, staying in the moment, and acknowledging what else is happening that makes life living ...  Boy, that box of Lindor milk chocolate truffles really helped. Thank you Rhys!

HOSTAGE TO HEALING

She's awake before me, the third time last night, prodding me in my back with her electric shock treatment, like an errant cow she wants to get into the truck, but who's not cooperating. As I turn to do her bidding, she punches me hard in the ribs, under my left breast, and into my side. She watches as I wince and try to catch my breath.
Hauling myself up, my hand reaches for my Nokia. An hour later than it was last time. A peep of street light beneath the white blind. I fumble for the extra-strength paracetamol, the extra-strength ibuprofen and swallow hard. Like an illegal immigrant trying to cross the Calais border she finds her way of sliding in-just beneath my skin- creeping and crawling into her hiding position. She dribbles her trail of iced spittle along my inner spine to lubricate herself into deeper cavities. She reaches my stomach, and turns it sour, sinking sick.
But she has something else to show me. She squeezes me tightly as we wander down to the garden entwined in each other. Come on, I think. Let's see what healing this garden can do.


Tuesday 26 August 2014

SHINGLES - Day 12

On reading my shingles poem, my old friend- she Estragon to my Vladimir- suggested I might start up 'shingles nights' with 'speed grating.' She got it.
     I've been very fortunate, am rarely ill, and never get flu. I did have a hip replacement three years ago and that has given me a new lease of life, becoming more physically active, and no longer carrying pain. However, having shingles,a minor condition, has made me wonder how I'll cope when I do get a serious condition. We all do eventually get one, even if it's sudden death. That for me being much preferable to a long lingering illness in pain. Most of my friends over the age of 60 have already started having 'a condition.' It may be a dodgy hip or knee, cancer, heart problems, broken bones, depression, anxiety, permanent coughs, dementia, loss, grief, all linked with pain in some way or other.
     It's always been my motto to try to live today as if it is my last. Well, at least try and make the most of life's opportunities and relationships, anyway. The challenge for me now is the unfolding realization that old age = conditions. But, 'condition' has a range of meanings.  Perhaps, the more important word is the one that qualifies it.
      What my present condition has provoked is a huge internet shopping spree. I've been trying to avoid Amazon, because of their growing reputation for worker exploitation and tax avoidance, but finding it very hard to do so, because it is so easy to order with just one click.
      I've bought pans for jam making, a skill I've had a lifelong aversion to, like the W.I. My feminist condition influenced me to the point of prejudice.  It wasn't the jam-making exactly, it was what it represented. It was a stupid aversion as I love home-made jam and the Women's Institute nowadays isn't all jam and Jerusalem. The organisation is an active campaigner on environmental and social justice issues. My husband is out now picking blackberries. Because of course-I can't- not in my condition.
      I've ordered shoes that cost more than an hour's  couple-counselling work and two pairs, just in case. A hat for my daughter's wedding, a man's wedding suit and 60's tie, a cushion for my son for Christmas, new underwear, coach cards, and registration fees for websites offering house minds abroad. Having shingles is proving to be a very expensive condition.
      Shingles has also sent me into the realms of fantasy condition-scouring Trusted Housesitters,  Mindmyhouse, Travelzoo websites for free winter holiday homes, retreats, exotic holidays, city breaks, adventures without pets, considering having pets, and I'm no pet lover.
      I also have a 'thirst-for-a course' condition. I've considered intensive German courses in Berlin,  learning Italian in Sicily, art history in Bologna, circle dancing in Greece.
      Then there's the writing condition. That seems to have speeded-up as I rewrite a poem for said daughter's wedding, a poem for said son's 30th, edit and type my husband's father of the bride speech, and of course write a poem about my condition.
       'Keeping family & friends abreast of my condition,' condition. That's taking up a lot of time because they all seem genuinely concerned about me. This is an extremely joyful condition.
       Well, it would seem that all -in- all shingles has been a productive, positive, if somewhat expensive condition. Pity about the pain.
     
     

Sunday 24 August 2014

SHINGLES


I had to cut short my holidays in Switzerland because I've got Shingles, a virus that lies dormant in the body of someone who's had chickenpox. and can be triggered by stress. Apparently it's very common among people over the age of 60. Below is the first draft a poem about the experience.


A wave of infection floods
neural pathways along my western front,
up-sweeping along its blad beaches
creating a tidal line of porridge pebbles,
iridescent, erubescent.
Eight thousand mils of aciclovir and co-codamol a day
spill me into a sleep of centuries
but no sleeping beauty,me-more
a hibernating selkie.
The ugly beast awakes, itchy, raw,
rummaging for fishy food,
half-full bottle of shiraz
from my bedroom shore
and, eurax
to rub gently on to wounds of scabbing sand.

Janet Daniel
24 August 2014.


Thursday 17 July 2014

WAR HORSE AT THE WMC


Last night, we saw the National Theatre's production, War Horse, based on a novel by Michael Morpugo, and adapted by Nick Stafford, and performed in association with the Handspring Puppet Company at the Wales Milennium Centre. It was an extraordinary production with a fantastic set designed by Rae Smith, a female designer. The puppetry was dexterous and brilliant. If you don't know it, it tells the story of World War 1 from the point of view of the hero- a thoroughbred horse, called Joey who is sent to the Front.
Morpurgo writes in the programme,
'' We still mourn; but now with the benefit of longer hindsight, we see 'the futility' of it all, and 'the pity', as Wilfred Owen wrote. War Horse is not simply a show or a play about war, a horse, and a boy. It is an anthem for peace, and reflects,I think, a universal longing for a world without war."

Although over all I enjoyed it, especially the puppetry, singing and the effects, I did feel the script could have done with substantial editing. Some of the acting was mumbled or shouted and mannered. Germans were stereotyped and some performances over the top. (excuse the pun)  However, there were moments when I did feel engaged, especially at the end when Joey and his owner, the boy Alfred, find each other again. The theme tune lyrics have stayed with me. Something like, 'You will be judged by your actions.'
Wonder how it would go down in Gaza?

The production has been on at the WMC since 18 June and finishes 19 July.
 For further info: wmc.org.uk 029 2063 6464 






FALL OUT 48 & 84

On Tuesday was my birthday and what great one it was. It started with an auspicious birthday present from a passing pigeon. On a walk along the Taff river I caught the turquoise dash of a kingfisher. The first I've seen since the first day out after my hip replacement operation three years ago, or is it four? Then a beautiful bunch of British sunflowers arrived via Interflora from my son living in Switzerland, and a bottle of poison from my daughter touring Canada, and courtesy of John Lewis. That's perfume by the way. One of my favourites. She also sent a card with a picture of a couple in a car that's been driven into a lake and the caption.
 'Oh for God's sake!' snapped Janet. 'Surely you've known me long enough to know I mean right when I say left.'
 Then I attended a meeting of Friends of  Taffs Well Park. They agreed to give me the pavilion free of charge  so that I can start a weekly therapeutic writing group. I'm calling it,'Writers in the Park,' and hoping that local people who've never written before can share their experiences, creativity, memories and have fun. Hopefully, I will be able to put into practice some of the theory I've learnt on the Orchard Foundation's Writing for Well-being course held over several weekends this year. I now just have to write a 3000 word essay to get my certificate for facilitating writing groups. Eek! This year I received a Cardiff University Life Long Learning certificate in Higher Education in Creative Writing. Since 2006 when I started attending creative writing classes I've attended numerous courses that they and others have held. Writing has really enriched my life. Now is my opportunity to bring my two passions together-counselling and creative writing.

All day I got lovely texts and phone calls from family and friends. Thank you! I felt really loved and appreciated. How lucky am I?

Then in the evening, there was the performance of  'Fall Out '84,' Pontardawe Arts Centre's Script Cafe and Neath Port Talbot Young Writers' Squad's community play exploring the impact of the Miners Strike, thirty years on. My piece called, 'Hot Coals', had been sympathetically edited by script editor, Tina Walker and was well  received. The play directed by Derek Cobley, was performed by professional actors. Given they only had five days rehearsal they all did an amazing job. The audience really seemed to like the play overall. It was such fun to be part of. I can't wait for the next project...

And at 9pm, as the sky turned pink, Dan, our friend handed me a bag of his self-speared spider crab and his home-made sausages, Emily gave me a creative writing book, and Rhys and I drove back over the Brecon Beacons. Perrrfect!

Monday 30 June 2014

MAMETZ

We lined up at the top of the field at Great Llancayo Upper Wood near Usk in Monmouthshire to watch a new National Theatre of Wales(NTW) production-Mametz by Owen Sheers, and directed by Matthew Dunster. The NTW has moved into large site-specific productions based in some interesting places across Wales, including last year, 'The Persians' on Ministry of Defence land in the Brecon Beacons.
    Mametz is based on the memoir of Wyn Griffiths' time as a Staff Officer in World War 1, the experience of David Jones,a writer and artist, and the 38th Division's Battle for Mametz Wood.
    Owen was commisioned by the BBC to produce a film of the battle of Mametz Wood. While he was doing this a war grave was discovered nearby. Twenty British soldiers, probably from a 'Pals' regiment had been buried arm in arm. In response Owen wrote his poem, 'Mametz Wood,'  and from that the play developed. 
   There must have been nearly a thousand people walking through the trenches last Friday. The production used farmland, fields,a barn with sliding doors that looked out onto a wood, and the oak and sycamore wood itself. As sunset glowed a golden light and shadows fell, we were taken through the horrors of that battle and the war. So much human potential wasted. As I watched I thought of all the young men and women who have been used as fodder in war. The bodies lying in Mametz Wood in 1916 could be those dying in wars Iraq, Syria, and the Ukraine in 2014. Have we learnt nothing?

   It's a moving epic production. DON'T MISS IT!  It's on for another week. Contact NTW 029 2035 3070 W.NationaltheatreWales.org. Bookings through the Wales Millenium Centre.

WRITING FOR WELL BEING

This weekend I attended the final weekend of the Orchard Foundation's course,'Writing for Well Being/Therapeutic Writing. The focus was learning the skills of group facilitation with a big emphasis on experiential learning to deliver workshops. Now, all I have to do is a 3000 word essay on the subject and its applications by the end of August! I'm looking forward to doing more reading around the subject. It will be the first academic essay I'm attempted since doing my counselling training nearly twenty years ago, so it will be quite a challenge. I'm hoping to do a one-off taster workshop for colleagues and then put myself out there-on the market- to run workshops for anyone wanting to write for therapeutic reasons. I also hope to give individual counselling clients more opportunities to use writing in our sessions.
 If you think you may be interested please get in touch. You can email me at janetdaniel125@hotmail.com or call on 0750 5024 117

Monday 14 April 2014

FALL OUT 84 & FALL IN 2014


 My quest to find the Holy Grail through writing continues. Last weekend it was back to Pontardawe Arts Centre for a workshop on a new community play project, lead by Derek Cobley and Tina Walker, based on the Miners strike of 1984 and it's aftermath. This weekend was Level 2 of Writing for Well-being, run by Fiona Hamilton and Nigel Williams of the Orchard Foundation. My aim after Level 3, is eventually to be able to run a well-being group using creative writing.
  This month I've been challenged by Oulipost-part of National Poetry month. I've been trying to write a poem of Found Poetry a day. Cheating a lot on the rules and not making it every day, but an interesting exercise. If you are interested, see my blog, Found Poetry. http://ouliposter.blogspot.co.uk.




Tuesday 11 March 2014

TOM :The Story of Tom Jones

The Muni at Pontypridd was packed on Saturday night. He wasn't the real Tom Jones, but by the reception that the show had, he could almost have been. Kit Orton as Tom sang all the great numbers, thrust his pelvis (perhaps a little too often), but had the audience singing their hearts out. Phylip Harries was a great narrator, the musicians playing the Senators were superb. The show is pacy, with a great set design by Sean Crowley, and atmospheric lighting by Ceri James. If you're a fan, don't miss it. It's on tour til May 3 2014. www.theatr-nanog.co.uk

'Theatr na nÓg and their partners RCT Theatres and NPT Theatres are producing a story of Tom
 Jones; born Tommy Woodward; otherwise known as Tommy Scott and The Senators.
This play with live music tells the story of Tom in the early years, before his mega- fame and follows the blossoming talent of the valleys boy who sang in pubs and working men’s clubs up and down the valleys of South Wales. Then came his big break with his first number one hit on St David’s Day in 1965...Its Not Unusual!
Jam-packed with rock n roll hits of the era, played live on stage with a full band, TOM is a show that celebrates an ordinary man with an extraordinary talent.
Written by Mike James, this inspirational tale of incredible self-belief and determination will thrill audiences throughout Wales and beyond. (taken from the website www.theatr-nanog.co.uk)


Friday 7 February 2014

RETURN OF THE LIGHT

It is Imbolc, the Celtic festival celebrating the day that the land reawakens after winter and the sun and light returns to Earth. But in this year, two thousand and fourteen Mother Earth, Gaia, is under siege. Her death by water torture is her imminent punishment for the sins of her people. At the time of the Winter Solstice, the shortest day, the rain started and it rained continuously for forty days and forty nights as predicted long long ago.
But the builders wouldn't listen. They built on Barrow Mump and on the flood plains of Arthurian legend. They turned their backs on reason and built their dreams on sand. But sand can turn to mud and mud can silt rivers, and rivers can rise, and river water will always find a way of reaching the great seas and oceans. The builders were consumed by their passion for making gold, but were wise enough to build their own homes on higher ground. And fill them with good things to eat and drink.
The skies filled with sadness, seeing the world was nearing its end. They spilt their tears over Gaia, crying over her demise. Branches of birch held their tears at the end of their spindles until they became so heavy that they drooped and could no longer hold on. The tears plopped onto the ground and formed channels of grief. The channels trickled into the streams, and the streams poured into the rivers. In the South and the West the rivers rose. Parrett and Tone, Severn and Thames rose up in angst high above their banks, and looking for ways to escape, they divided, again and again,flowing fast and furious over anything standing in their wake. Kelpies, spirits of water horses, lured people to ride on their backs, tricking them,they drowned their riders and ate them up.
So the flooding and the devastation began. But the builders and their leaders still wouldn't listen or see. They were blind to the suffering of their people, deaf to the distress calls of robins and blackbirds, oblivious to the drowning of otters and foxes, ignored the flooding of fields and forests, the demise of horses and cows, but still they continued to count their gold in coffers on high ridges. But the mountains could no longer hold the glaciers. Gaia was angry and she could no longer hold the world safely in her hands. As the glaciers slipped from her grasp, they melted and joined the rivers in their race for the ocean. The oceans swelled, and their seas grew fuller and fiercer, forming tsunamis. And the tsunamis joined the torment of the torrents backlashing over Mother Earth until there was only salt and acid water, and total misery in our world.
And finally the builders and their leaders listened to the silence of the stillness and saw the devastation and the damage. And they looked into their own torn souls but could find no use for their gold to redeem themselves. So they emptied their pockets and threw their coins up high into the northern skies. And the coins were caught by dancing Fir Chlis, who threw the golden coins across the sky in a streak of dazzling green light to Aurora, the Goddess of the Dawn. And Aurora changing form from crone to maiden mounted the sun and began her journey to return the light back to Mother Earth for the forthcoming Festival of Imbolc. And so the proverb was born, 'What doth it profit a man if he gains the whole world and suffers the loss of his own soul?'


Janet Daniel

February 1st, Imbolc 2014