From the outset, the PuppetCraft cast encouraged a non-frontal and participatory style of theatre, asking children to sit on the floor close to the scenery.
The ensemble cast of three open and close The Boy Who Cried Wolf with the ‘clickety click’ of their knitting needles, and the story gradually weaves itself into being, framed by these little poetic and visual moments. Continue reading “The Boy Who Cried Wolf: theatre review”
I think that keeping myself and the children busy and active, doing lovely things and making lovely memories, is one of the best ways that I’ve dealt with the difficulties of the past eighteen months and helped myself and the children to settle and move on from the trauma of the separation: by doing things we love and spending time together. Continue reading “A National Trust half term”
I’ve written a new post for Grads.co.uk, called “It’s the little things…” about the experience of having a baby during my PhD. It’s here, if anyone would like to read it. That’s my fourth post for Grads, now, where I post about the experience of being a student, graduate and jobseeker – most of my posts so far are about being an older-than-typical jobseeking graduate. The nice thing about writing these posts is how easily they come!
The Achilles Effect explores gender bias in the entertainment aimed at primary school boys, focusing on the dominant themes in children’s TV shows, toy advertising, movies, and books: gender stereotypes of both sexes, male dominance, negative portrayals of fathers, breaking of the mother/son bond, and the devaluing of femininity. It examines the gender messages sent by pop culture, provides strategies for countering these messages, and encourages discussion of a vitally important issue that is rarely talked about—the impact of gender stereotypes on boys.
via The Achilles Effect.
Pinkstinks is a campaign that targets the products, media and marketing that prescribe heavily stereotyped and limiting roles to young girls. We believe that all children – girls and boys – are affected by the ‘pinkification’ of girlhood. Our aim is to challenge and reverse this growing trend. We also promote media literacy, self-esteem, positive body image and female role models for kids.
I first heard about this issue because of fancy dress costumes. Doctor, scientist, astronaut are marketed to boys. Girls’ options… princess, fairy, ballerina, overwhelmingly. Pinkstinks campaigned successfully and got Sainsbury’s to remove the gender labelling. I just think it’s one of the areas where individuals can genuinely have the power to affect the values of wider society of the future. Girls, even small ones, must have the culturally validated right to want to be a scientist or astronaut if that is what they choose. It applies to boys too, in different ways, which is what the Achilles Effect website campaigns about.
As parents, we have the opportunity to encourage children to be whatever they can and to aspire to anything they dream to be, but mass marketing which perpetuates ridiculously out of date caricatures of gender makes it very difficult: which is why I keep trying to support the campaigns against reductive stereotyping.
I found an interesting story when I was looking up Hans Christian Andersen in response to a post about scary French children’s stories on Facebook). It’s The Story of a Mother. Here is the summary on wikipedia, which is pared down but still moving, and here is a more fictionalised, stylised version.
The discussion about whether or not children should be exposed to dark ideas made me want to look up some Andersen because of the different type of darkness, death, etc in stories ostensibly aimed at children. I remember certain vivid images from childhood like the Little Mermaid’s pain when she walked (as if on a knife-edge); an image of a mother with three dead children, for which I can’t find the source.
Incidentally, I tend to dislike the existential twistedness of many French picture-books (of which there is a specific genre, I’d say; and which are aimed at very young children) compared to the profound discussions of death, loss and morality in stories like many of the Andersen stories, and other dark children’s literature (Dahl, Robin Jarvis etc).
I was particularly interested in The Story of a Mother (because there are lots of amazing Andersen stories) for the stunningly moving last appeal of the mother. She basically says “Do not let me have what I want” – and I’m *sure* there is a cultural reference elsewhere for this and I’ve been googling it ever since but can’t find anything but a few obscure Christian ideas. Perhaps it is a negro spiritual, or something: anyway it rings a bell.
Also, for me the story is scarily evocative of the depth of a mother’s love. She will do anything to find her child; she will literally bleed from her own heart, and walk to the ends of the earth and will find the child amongst millions. And it is the fundamental selflessness of a parent’s love, that, somewhat like the judgement of Solomon, she would rather lose the child (ie deny her own pleasure) than for it to suffer.
Interesting ethical questions. In fact, it’s not like the judgement of Solomon. There, the mother chose to give up her own pleasure (having the child with her) in favour of the child living (albeit, apart from her). The mother in the Andersen would rather the child die than risk its suffering; indeed, a 50-50 risk. But we have to remember the context of this story is that the child is going to God. A continued existence in bliss, presumably. So this skews the statistics of her decision making a little. 50-50 suffering or happiness for the child in life, against a 100% chance of the child’s bliss in death combined with a 100% chance of suffering for the mother who loses her child in life. So in the end, selfish versus selfless seems to be her only criterion for the decision.
Although Christians would presumably believe that they would be reunited with the child in death. Typical – religion provides a win-win situation for any problem.
Anyway, who knows – perhaps some suffering is valuable. Personally, I think I’d rather live fully and properly, and risk feeling some pain, than only live half-heartedly, and never feel pain or loss. Also, there is definitely a distinction to be made between what one wants, in the present moment, and what one should have. Naturally, I’d just query whether God should be in charge of making that distinction, as he is in the story. What the mother asks for is for God to decide what should happen – she places her fate in divine hands. Sadly, in reality, much as it’s tempting to delegate, I believe the responsibility for that type of decision is mine and mine alone.
Anyway, these thoughts are as far as I’ve got alone. Feel free to comment or discuss below.
Spring is arriving in Yorkshire and I love the breezy sunshine. A trip to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park was an obvious choice last weekend, and one I had been looking forward to for a while. Apparently, half of Britain agreed with me, as the place was heaving. The restaurant was a single mum’s nightmare – hours of queuing and crowds and waiting for food. Although on a quieter day, the view from the glass-fronted building would have been lovely.
The park is set in the grounds of a stately home and covers 500 acres. We covered a predictably frustratingly small fraction (with a pushchair) but what we did manage was memorable and worthwhile. The park was hosting a new Miro exhibition, although none of us were particularly taken. The children failed to sense the whimsy of the “Personnages” and I was more intrigued by an apparent reference to Brimham Rocks in a sculpture which strongly resembled the rock called The Idol…!
However, a much more natural and emotional response followed naturally, when we left the confines of the visitor centre area and started running down the sunny hill, where Barbara Hepworth’s 1970 group “The Family of Man” strides down the slope.
Perhaps it is a general feeling, or perhaps something personal to me, but the sense of serenity about this group really filled me with a sense of deep happiness, and I was very grateful that it was there, and that it had the power to evoke such positive emotions. Everything about the group, whether it was the spacing of the figures or the sense of free motion downhill through the trees, or the solid and confident weight of the bronzes whose abstract shapes were both angular and fluid, pliable and strong, suggested unity and family.
The sunshine certainly helped, but the children shared my sense of satisfaction and peaceful enjoyment, running inbetween the figures; which do have a strong sense of personhood about them, even though they are more abstract than the Miro “Personnages”. My son, in particular, had a warm and visceral response to the Hepworth figures, which expressed itself in a very tactile way. He seemed to respond not only to the texture, but also to the shape, scale, and sun-warmed surfaces of the sculptures. The liberation proposed by the Sculpture Park setting, which allows both children and adults such rare close physical interaction with art, seemed rather joyful in this context.
Other works set throughout the grounds also encourage tactile interaction, but after this first moving experience, none of the other artworks quite inspired the same feelings. However, my daughter had a sweet and personal reaction to Elisabeth Frink’s “Sitting Man” – she took hold of its hand and started singing nursery rhymes: “Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear…” Possibly, she was struck by the lifelike pose and scale, but certainly a sense of trust had been instinctively engendered. I found it fascinating to observe the children’s uninhibited responses to each work.
The monumental scale of Anthony Caro’s “Promenade” was certainly one of the most visually arresting sights in the Park, and the children enjoyed making it their playground, finding secret passages, rooms and houses in exactly the same way as all the other young visitors. I think they felt this was the sole purpose of the installation – not really ‘art’ at all – whereas I feel the Hepworth group did retain its purpose as a visual and physical object to experience.
I had been looking forward to seeing Anthony Gormley’s sculpture, “One and Other”, positioned high up on a tree in a hidden, forested corner of the Park. It was oddly small, but as with all Gormley’s human figures, imbued with plenty of intensity: and the pose indicated a resiliant human defiance, a combination of vulnerability and strength.
A definite favourite, though, with the children was Henry Moore’s “Large Two Forms”. Every child visitor to the Park seemed drawn to it, and it was immensely satisfying to be able to walk in and around it and through the middle, touch the worn and smoothed surfaces, and observe and experience the shapes from all angles. What the children loved most, though, was the sonorous materiality of the bronze, and every child put their ears to the sculpture to hear the strange bell-like echoing within the shape.
I think what is particularly lovely about the Sculpture Park is the variety of sculptures and the informality which is encouraged. Nothing staid or restrained about this ‘gallery’ – it is all touch and running and sunshine – and really a unique and quite special experience.
‘Sculptural potter’ Gordon Baldwin’s exhibition, ‘Objects for a Landscape’, is at York Art Gallery from February to June of this year. I took the children during the half term break, on a mild and breezy York day. The gallery had laid on a creative workshop and I was interested to see what my children would make of it.
Called ‘Clouds made of Clay’, the workshop was responding to one of Baldwin’s particular inspirations, cloud formations. The young participants were encouraged to work the clay freely, while trained assistance was available for older children more interested in developing different techniques.
As we had done at the Hepworth, I took the children to the workshop first, to give them a ‘way in’ to the exhibition. Photographs of some of Baldwin’s pieces, as well as photographs of clouds, were on the table as source material if needed. What surprised me was how the children responded to the stimulus.
My son made and remade several abstract pieces, oddly reminiscent of Baldwin’s own instinctive working method (which he describes in a video on the gallery website). He seemed to shape and work the clay until he achieved a form that interested him, then unmade it or defaced it in an interesting way, before crushing it or flattening it and starting again. I was amused to see that he remembered clay working techniques (such as coil and pinch) which he learned last year with ceramic teacher Jo McKinnon, at her workshop in the south ofFrance.
Only once did he start to make ‘a thing’ – an animal – but this project didn’t seem to inspire him. His final piece had holes through the middle. I couldn’t help wondering if Barbara Hepworth from last month’s gallery trip was still in his mind.
My 2 year old daughter loved cutting and pushing the clay with the tools that were at our disposal. She was obviously interested in investigating its materiality rather than making it into a particular visual form.
As we left the workshop, it turned out to have been an absolutely perfect introduction to the exhibition. Both children were curious about what the artist had made out of the same material they had just been handling.
While I found some of the darker aspects of Baldwin’s work preoccupying (in particular, I felt that one overriding theme, the sharp edges and cuts in swollen, bulbous forms, hinted at bodily violence; the black interior of pieces such as ‘Vessels for Dark Thoughts’ felt somewhat unsettling), the children enjoyed a more playful interpretation. They asked me to pick them up so they could see inside each piece, commenting on the different shapes and colours; they enjoyed discussing whether a bowl or pot was lumpy, or spiky, or smooth; they wondered what each piece might be ‘for’.
Here was a gallery which had truly engaged its young visitors with the materiality of the art objects on show. The fascinating video of the sculptor at work, which was playing on a loop in the centre of the exhibition space, clearly was suggesting that we focus on the process, rather than the outcome.
What fascinated me about the video was the sculpt0r’s uncertainty about where the work was going, what it would become, what he would do with it. Freeing his own creative process in this way also frees the viewer. While the associations and feelings surrounding the pieces had a specific and not particularly pleasant resonance for me, the novelty of cups, bowls and vases in odd shapes, with odd openings, was enough to capture the children’s attention and make them think and play with visual and physical concepts.
On the 29th January we visited The Hepworth Wakefield to coincide with the final day of Clare Woods’ exhibition, The Unquiet Head. I was determined not to miss this exhibition, as the paintings have been inspired in part by the landscape around Brimham Rocks, a stunning collection of natural rock formations in North Yorkshire, which is a few miles down the road from our house. And having offered to do some communications volunteering for the National Trust about Brimham Rocks I thought this would be a useful field trip.
The children love visiting Brimham Rocks: we’ve been several times since we have been back in the UK. The amazing rock formations, worn away by erosion over thousands of years, are a natural playground, with shapes, steps, crevices, caves, towers, hidden paths just asking to be explored. It’s a genuinely wonderful and original place, but it’s true that having visited so often with young children, where most of my time is spent clambering desperately to keep up with small people, I have not had the opportunity to take the time to explore the emotions and impressions that the landscape can evoke when alone, or in a more contemplative mood.
Clare Woods visited Brimham to research her paintings and describes a sense of anxiety, in particular when visiting alone, early in the morning. She explains, “it’s not a relaxing place: it’s not about, look at this beautiful view, or this wonderful panorama” (BBC News report, October 2011). The rich cultural history associated with the site – from Victorian myths about Druids and fairies, to the names affectionately given to individual rocks (The Druids’ Writing Desk, The Dancing Bear, The Smartie Tube) – gives a sense of the sheer inventiveness of human imagination when applied to this odd quirk of geology.
relationship between the paintings and the rocks intrigued me from the outset. Some paintings clearly ‘are’ certain rocks (even are recognisable). As we walked in, I overheard a woman coming out saying “They’re supposed to be Brimham Rocks, I think.” Supposed to be? I suspected that this was missing the point on a catastrophic scale.
The BBC news report is even less ambiguous about the connection. Woods’ exhibition is captioned, ‘the work depicting Brimham Rocks’. “Having just come from Brimham Rocks, I completely recognise them. There they are!” enthuses the journalist at the end of the video report.
It has somehow done Clare Woods a disservice to associate The Unquiet Head too closely to the landscape at Brimham, which makes the question “which rock is it supposed to be?” crowd out the other impressions and inspirations the paintings evoke. The exhibition leaflet states that “Woods continues a tradition of British landscape painting characterised by artists such as Paul Nash, John Piper and Graham Sutherland”, but I’d be tempted to look further back into the stylistic history of abstraction – a characterisation of Woods as a landscape artist threatens to negate the strong and vibrant nod to predecessors in genres such as abstract expressionism, and the compelling abstract colour work, for me a major part of the appeal of these pieces, strongly evocative of some parts of the Colour Fields movement.
Because they are moving, stunning paintings in their own right. Two things struck me upon first walking into the main room (where the two large murals, Mistaken Point and The Intended, are displayed): the sheer scale of the paintings, and their glorious physicality, in the boldness of colour and glossy liquidity of the surfaces. The murals face each other across the room: one bolder with red and black hues, the rock forms looming and swaying above the viewer’s heads; the other softer, more fluid, with a palette of pinks and natural tones. They are placed opposite each other as if offering two different interpretations, or two different attitudes or emotions.
I can’t help wondering if the titles of both works are a hint that all is not what it seems. Both titles refer to intention and reception, with perhaps a hint that the artist is tantalising the viewer with the point, the intention, deliberately set aside to elude us.
The other thing which makes a visit to see the originals in the gallery (rather than a print or photograph) so compelling is the difference between the distant and the close-up view. This is touched on in the BBC documentary. I actually preferred coming in close to the paintings, enjoying the gorgeousness of the paint and texture and letting the shapes and blocks of colour smear and weave between each other, without coalescing into a rock or other shape. Some of the close-up textures are also fascinating.
Apart from the two vast horizontal murals, there are other immense works along the ‘rocks’ theme, but also smaller, more intimate works, some clearly implying faces or heads, others suggesting natural forms, perhaps nests or wood. On the day we visited, the stunning Ligeti string quartet was playing in one of the rooms, in which were displayed three vast paintings. The music had been chosen to suggest the unsettling and dark nature of the paintings. My 6 and 2 year old sat silently and watchfully through a ten minute piece by Nicola de Fanu. I’m not sure what they thought, but I do think the haunting atmosphere affected them and kept their attention. When the piece was finished, I decided to take pity on them, and took them for a drink in the café. I hope the quartet didn’t take it personally when we left (I’d have sat there for hours).
I’m very much hoping the exhibition travels to another gallery, as I caught it too late to be able to recommend it. But I think I’d definitely suggest disassociating the paintings from the rocks. They are not paintings ‘of’ rock formations. Instead they are a luxuriously crafted and compelling glance at the thoughts, passions and emotions of an artist with a gifted eye for colour. Next time I visit Brimham Rocks, perhaps the relationship will work in the other direction, and the reds, roses, blacks, taupes, oranges and greys from Clare Woods’ visions might stay with us, when we are exploring the infinity of browns, greys and greens dreamt up by the Yorkshire countryside.