I am sat in a dining room in Leeds, a plate of white foods (white-bread turkey sandwiches, and sponge-cake) beside me, amongst the wreckage of the first family get-together in about two years. For an event so long anticipated, it passed in a blur, as these things always so. I was punched by small, screaming children, treated to what seemed like self-refilling glasses of wine and champagne, an endless conveyor belt of savoury, sweet and then more savoury (and so on) food and a bit of sulking here and there. Because how else is it possible to cling to your freshly-forged sense of self and closely guarded independence these past ten years when the family archives are being cracked out? VHS videos and all? My distaste to this, I admit, is an utter façade. I guard my choice of bin-liner-style dresses and fuzzy bucket-hats as a ten-year-old with a fierce kind of pride.
An error in travel-booking has left me however in the back-watery aftermath of such an event- all other guests have departed home, and I am left amongst the turkey-trimmings. I am a remnant of party detritus, sitting amongst the crumbs of brownie and parkin stuck to the walls, the chunks of burst balloon littering the floors, stepping in the way of every clean-up operation. As ever, such moments of suspension when one is ‘neither here nor there’ offers an opportunity to reflect. Especially in reconciliation with the different aspects of one’s self that can be encountered in the performance of one’s family personae. I arrived a fiercely independent (if a little hungover) artist but sitting here, with memories of old versions of self, lapping around me like waves, I’m inclined to let that notion rest awhile.
This Christmas time is always one of great contradictions I find. For people in the arts, for anyone, you go through the year often cowed by this notion of graft and goals and ambition. All vital. But at what point to we let this notion rest in the year? Such a notion is one of privilege, of course. Those that can afford to give their art, their ideas, their craft, the space to breath and mature, have a level of privilege. It’s a wonderful thing- taking the form of the artist retreat, the sabbatical. It is self-delegated time spent in one’s office or studio. It is joyous.
But even for those who have had this time to ‘mull’ over one’s art, there is a level of awareness that one needs to be going somewhere- that itchy sense of doubt that what one is doing is just farting around with a paintbrush or whatever it is, calling it ‘art’ or ‘work’ to satisfy one’s ego or the innocent questions coming from friends and family- ‘just what the hell are you doing?’ But here, at the end of the line, at the end of the year, a cliff edge rises into view. The knowledge that another year is nearly up. It’s a time where one can truly come back to one’s self and ask that same question of whether or not your life is a total wreck.
It feels to me like a time to stay away from social media, adverse to the chaos that seems to ramp up online over these final weeks of the year. Everyone is grateful or excited or trying to sell you some notion of what you should or shouldn’t be doing. Eat what you want/don’t eat what you want, party hard/detox, relax or work yourself to the bone because the year is almost over anyway. I hurry to acknowledge my own hypocrisy here- feel free to not read this and not do any of the self-reflection I’m suggesting. I wouldn’t want to contribute to the sheer noise of it all at this time of year. It just seems to me, with so many people going home (as I will be very soon), amongst all this chaos and onslaught that seems to encapsulate this entire year, maybe there’s a chance within that to just, finally, get a little peace and quiet.
It’s one of my beliefs that even when one ‘isn’t doing anything’, you are. If you feel like staring at the wall for a little while, maybe your brain is needing something solid and still to rest itself on, that serves a purpose. I think for this time of year, however, the intention has to be completely different. Because it’s not about ‘just keeping on going’ anymore. It could just be about letting the dust settle a bit.
Getting work in the arts industry, for me at the moment, can feel a lot like you’re always focussing on other people. How do I word this email so they’ll respond favourably? How do I post on social media effectively? How to I present myself to other creatives- do I have to invent a specific persona for that? What is the tactic I have to use to get this funding? Even if you’re putting on your own work, there are other people in the equation. It can be difficult to steady yourself, to find yourself even, within all of that. For me- I can see people who work through their experience and build knowledge that way- continue, if this is the case.
How can we return to ourselves at a time that feels so crazy and chaotic? We’re jet-setting around the country (or even further-afield) and this can be a very emotional time for us all- it can remind us of the good times, but also of the bad. And there is value to this- giving into nostalgia, shaking the dust off some of those relationships that we forgot make up large portions of our heart. I would say that it’s important to stay present during this time- for though our perceptions of ourselves might be getting scrambled, all of us have come a long way this year in becoming who we are right now. The next question to ask is- what of who we are right now do we want to take into this coming year?
Amongst these paragraphs of self-reflective questions and-even- a sprinkling of existential angst, I think it’s important to art-making- art is essentially an expression of the inexpressible. Screw the ‘new year, new me’ mentality. New year? Find you. Find where you are and where you want to go.
For this, I prescribe silence. I prescribe alone time. I prescribe remembering what your values are, why you started and why you’re still here. There is nothing more powerful than someone that knows themselves- there is a huge amount of gravitas (or -dare I say- presence...stage presence…) that comes with that. Maybe the universe will start going your way. Maybe you’ll manifest that money that you need for that project. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll remember who you are and that’ll show you what you need to do next. Forget surviving as deemed appropriate or acceptable by the government, by your peers, by the people you love even. Look at the picture you have created with your existence this year. Look at it without judgement. Then turn away, and begin again, into this new year.
It seems fitting that following this grandiose rant, I was stuck in Manchester running after various rail-replacement buses. Irony, though cruel, is sweet.
Photo: An image of 'The Record' at the IBT17 Bristol International Festival, directed by 600 Highwaymen. Couldn't resist mentioning it -the festival is called 'In between time'.