Hull: lit up by the arts

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Photo: Kim Dent-Brown. ‘Made in Hull’ City of Culture 2017 launch

Wrapped up watchers throng the square. The Hull breeze nips at our noses. My son sits on shoulders, he reaches for the stars. The clock strikes, as pictures flood walls and sounds fill the air. Thousands of faces turn to hall, gallery, museum; fine stone buildings, spared from the bombs. The arts light up the city we call home.

History rushes before us – a light-show of oceans, of seafarers, of heroes. We stand, open-mouthed, swept up by the magic. As I look at the watchers I’m moved by the unity. We are different yet similar – our mouths open, tears falling – such is the power of the arts.

This was ‘Made in Hull,’ the launch of Hull’s 2017 City of Culture year. Although nearly four years back, the memory lives on. Ask any local and they’re sure to remember.

Some had sneered at Hull’s win. They’d tagged it a ‘crap town’ years ago. They didn’t care to know the City of Culture at the end of the line. The proud, maritime city, that had birthed poets and playwrights, actors and activists, musicians and mavericks.

They’d not stood at the bar where Minghella and Motion had supped. They’d not read in the library where Larkin had worked. They’d not slept streets away from the Housemartin’s house. They’d not sat in Hull Truck – the launchpad for actors that went on to Oscars. I had done all of those things; I knew Hull’s arts heritage.

Hull 2017 was a turning point, it opened closed minds. Early impact findings showed success. Overall, it brought income, pride, regeneration. The arts united communities, lifted spirits and flipped opinions. Yet, four years on, so much has changed.

Today, as I sit in a cafe overlooking that same square, the arts are in crisis. The sector that contributes more to the economy than agriculture is in free-fall. Across the country, Coronavirus has shut theatres, halls, galleries and entertainment venues. Arts Unions warn of a wave of redundancies.

As we paint rainbows and hope, our government posits that ballerinas trade tutus for security. This is no surprise from a party that’s cut the arts since 2010. Sadly, the arts have been battling austerity long before Corona.

This dismissal of the arts goes beyond funding. It stretches to classrooms, affecting young people. Since 2010, the EBacc has devastated GCSE entries in arts subjects. A focus on academic scores has squeezed technical and creative options. The repeated message to pupils is ‘the arts don’t count.’

This shortsighted policy is at odds with thought leaders. The World Economic Forum puts creativity high, in its 2022 Skills Outlook. Governments should be championing the arts. Ministers should be fostering the skills born out of creating.

Yet here we are, stuck with a rogue virus and a philistine government. We’re looking to a front bench that puts cronies over culture. Make no mistake, the arts are not safe in their hands; the clock is ticking.

So, if you’ve ever loved a film, a concert or a play – this is a call to action. If you’ve ever felt the magic of performance. – this is an alarm bell! If you’ve ever been touched by the arts – this is the time to stand, to shout, to lend your support: www.campaignforthearts.org

Writing: it started with a bowl

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It’s 1985 and I have writers block. My 9 year old self is scratching my head. I am sitting at the kitchen table opposite my mum. She is trying to to be patient but I see the steam. She wants me to describe what’s in my bowl.

I have Mrs Briggs to thank for this. At the start of term, she gave out orange text books, “These are for writing your stories,” she said with a smile.

My ‘stories’ were already written, lined up on my shelf. Anne of Green Gables, Little Women, What Katy Did Next – I ate them up. I was a reader, a total bookworm.

Yet, when it came to writing my head was empty. Adjectives mocked me, similes vexed me and metaphors made me sad. So it came to be that I was sat there staring at my breakfast bowl.

“What do you see Tess?” my mum asks. I’m looking at the dregs of my Weetabix – what should I say? “Describe it to me” she pressed. On the spot, I felt nervous, “Milky pools?” I volunteered. Her eyes brightened, “OK, what else?” Gosh, this was painful, “Umm, muddy mountains.” She was almost buzzing, “Great! What else?” I was grabbing at straws, “A spoon, silvery like the moon.” She clapped her hands, “Yes Tess, you’re doing it!”

There’s nothing better than pleasing your mum; her happiness lights up the room. I was left with a biscuit, juice and the challenge to write.

As the midday sun shone, I started writing my story of The Magic Pen. A mischievous pen, that caused mayhem wherever it went. Do you know what I found? I found that, if I thought less and just wrote, I could end up anywhere.

Days later, when I got my story back from Mrs Briggs, my heart leapt. There on the page was a star and the words, ‘A magical story Tess.’ And so, the reader became the writer. I shall always thank my mum for helping me to find my writing verve.

The forest is my happy place

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As I walk through the forest I feel myself unfurl. The path is strewn with pine cones – I pick one up, press it to my palm.

Ahead, my son hollers as he spars invisible knights. The dog plods by my side, nosing the leaves for something edible. He’s always hungry, unfazed by old age spread.

I’m hungry too but not for food. It’s the green I crave. I synch my breath with my tread; my lungs fill with loamy air. It’s as if the forest heals. The trees reach to me, like the arms of a mother.

These days I’m tightly wound. I bid myself to relax. Yet the months that lie behind have taken their toll. I move with a coil inside me. My husband watches, he knows the signs – the anxious tick.

Rain falls through the forest leaves. We are in no rush. Instead we turn our faces upwards. My son opens his mouth to catch a taste: “God is crying mummy.” I’m not sure where this religion comes from. I am a heathen, still unchristened at 44.

We come to a clearing and standing stones – a Druid’s dell. We move in between granite columns and altar. It is a spiritual place. We sit a while, taking in the ancient view.

Then we discover the plaque – it is a folly built for wealthy men. Maybe the ‘sirs’ wore robes and prayed to the moon. We imagine them there, in the fading light.

No matter, it is still magical. We are happy that we found this place. Damp discoverers, we trudge back to the car. I still hold the pine cone in my hand. My lungs still full of forest air, my heart is happy.

Remembering to breathe

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It’s easy to forget to breathe. Too often, we plough through, riding the worry wave. This year has brought us to the crest more than once. The UK’s Office for National Statistics says that coronavirus has impacted on our wellbeing – no real surprise there.

Isolation, relationship strife, curbed freedoms – it’s unsurprising that we’ve felt tense. For those of us at high risk, disabled or living alone, lockdown can be endless. In 2020, a rise in mental health issues has been seen globally.

These days, we have become masked, antibac crusaders, twitching at a close-to cough. It’s no wonder our heads are in a spin. Learning how to manage our stress has become a daily necessity.

It makes sense that meditation and mindfulness app usage has surged this year. I am a convert to Insight Timer but the well-being market is full of options. Ten minutes a day has helped me through dark moments. Relearning to breathe has been a revelation.

I’ve been surprised at how often I forget to truly breathe. How I move, shallow breathed through my days. If only I’d learnt the art earlier; I could have skipped some teenage angst!

Mindfulness, coupled with yoga has given me new life tools. Adriene Mishler has been my guide here. Her warm and natural style has coaxed me through flows that have set me right.

It’s ironic that, out of a shitty year I have become better at looking after myself. Oddly, I have coronavirus to thank for that. At first, self care was about survival. Now, as I look to autumn, I face uncertainty with a little less fear. If anxiety builds, I can return to the rhythm of my breath.

“Breathing in. I calm my body and mind. Breathing out. I smile. Dwelling in the present moment. The only moment.”

Thich Nhat Hanh

A legendary Brooklyn girl

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It’s February 2019 and I’m on a flight to New York. Stationary hours stretch ahead of me. I’m halfway through my snacks and a mediocre book.

Fidgety, I scroll through the onboard entertainment. To my left, a sleeping husband and son, grant me my viewing freedom.

Endless choices blow my mind. I dally between chick flick, biopic and documentary. A bespectacled woman stares out from the screen. She wears a lace collar, her hair is scraped back, her eyes sharp. This was a lady who knew her ‘power.’

As I pressed play, I had no clue about the legend I was about to meet. Ruth Bader Ginsburg (RBG), Supreme Court Justice and liberal darling, was the subject of this story.

As we flew over the Atlantic I watched her life unfold. Born in Brooklyn, to Jewish parents, she shook taboos from the start. As a student she fought chauvinism for her place at Harvard Law School. She won the first tenured, female professorship at Columbia Law. She was a formidable champion of women’s rights and gender equality. She made history in 1993, as the second only female Justice (holding this position into her 80’s).

This woman was inspiring by anyone’s standards. She’d put her time on earth to great use. Her achievements had made her an icon to upcoming generations. She was formidable, exemplary and unique. Yet on that tiny screen, she came across as modest, diminutive, shy even.

The air hostess came bearing tea. I declined, riveted to the screen. My son woke, needing the bathroom. Reluctantly, I shepherded him up and down the aisle. I raced back to RBG.

As the pilot announced our descent, the film credits rolled. Days later, I would visit Brooklyn. I would imagine a young Ruth Bader walking under the bridge, holding her parents hands.

Flash forward, 20 months and I wake to the the announcement of her death. Complications from pancreatic cancer had cut her mission short.

It is a sad day, tears shall be shed. Her leaving is all the more stark as America fights for its soul. The world is in a dark place right now. The equality she fought for is under threat.

Yet her imprint shall remain. Ruth Bader Ginsburg blazed trails right to her last breath. We must continue the good fight, in honour of her outstanding legacy.

“Fight for the things that you care about, but do it in a way that will lead others to join you.”

Ruth Bader Ginsburg (March 15, 1933 – September 18, 2020)



Poetry saved me from the dark

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It’s 2013 I’m the mother of a newborn – a longed for child. I live with my husband in a red brick house in a estuary city at the end of the line.

The baby is beautiful, a healthy little boy. We name him after our Irish roots. He arrived in a blur of pain plucked from water, by a kind midwife.

Parenthood was a mystery at first – the baby manual no damn use. A colicky, fretful boy pushed us to our limits. Irritation buzzed like a pesky bee. We wrestled for the crown of most hard done by.

A health scare, on top of scant sleep, chipped away at me. My husband was kind, yet he couldn’t stop me from falling. The wise Dr packed me off with pills and counselling.

One wakeful night, I couldn’t switch off my brain. Cross words had cut the evening short. Absently, I reached for my phone, it’s lights luring me back.

In that moment, I was drawn to the notes section. From nowhere, I started to write and write. Words flew from me – a poem of sorts. As I wrote, I started to relax – emotions emptying into night.

That was the start of my writing journey. From there on in, I typed as I went about my days. On the bus into town, in between feeds and during baby naps. It was like someone had flicked a switch in me. Some poems were angry, some sad, others funny and joyful too. It was like I’d rediscovered myself, shook a part of me free.

When we become parents, we do not realise what we trade for the privilege. The love you feel for your child is endless. Yet as parents, we must love ourselves too. I have learnt that, in order to find my balance, to be a better mum, I must make time to write. This outlet has been my saviour, pulling me back from dark places – helping me feel whole.

The yearning for home

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One of my favourite words is nostalgia. Apart from the way it rolls off the tongue, its meaning moves me. Gifted to us by the Greeks, it’s no accident that it is born from the words nostos (return home) and algos (pain).

This longing for home, for past times and loved ones, has never been stronger than this year. This strange, topsy turvy year, which has ripped the rug from under us. Who knew, when we toasted the first of January, our resolutions would unravel before the Easter Bunny came.

Suddenly, we were hemmed within four walls, if we were lucky to have a place to be. Coronavirus, that peculiar word, filled our ears and mouths. When we should’ve been planning for holidays, we were watching for symptoms.

But, harder than than the cabin fever, the home-school and zoom fatigue, was the separation. The inability to go to people and places that made you feel whole. As you pine, Boris says “stay put!”

The weeks turn into months. As you struggle with home-work-school-work de ja vu, you start to remember. You revisit the unlikeliest memories; nostalgia sweeps you up.

You are walking home from Ladysmith School, for macaroni with a crispy top. You are listening to your mother sing, her voice loops in the air. You are riding on your father’s shoulders, it is green all around. You are tracing the curves of an old violin, its head is a handsome lion. You wash potatoes in the sink with granny, she smells of soap. You dance with your sister, the fire dances too.

Memories flood you like a wave, pulling tears from inside. The emotion is bittersweet, like sherbet, sucked on a journey home. There is pain in the return, yet it reminds you who you are.

Back in the corona cabin, you hanker for a hug, from those that have known you forever. Instead, you are forced to wait, retracing the memory groove. These roots are stronger in middle age. Your 40 something heart, yearning for that Devon air, the red earth beneath your feet.

Then, a voice pulls you back, a holler from downstairs, “Mummy, I’m hungry!” You shake yourself present, return to the now, to beans on toast and cartoons, the dog snoring beside you.

Where did I go?

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I started this blog over 1000 days ago, yet I have been MIP (missing in posting).

So much has happened in the world, near and far. So many things to comment on – good and bad. How can I make up for this? How can I roll back the months, marking those moments? The world swells with beauty and pain – there’s so much to say.

The truth is, I was scared. I didn’t dare put my self out here. The cautious kid still lurking, wanting to be liked. The need to please, that yoke of insecurity that has held me back time and again.

It can be risky to tell your truth – in this age of fierce opinions, emoji judgements and cancellations. I can be thin-skinned sometimes and bruise deeper than you shall ever know.

I didn’t feel like Boudica. I felt like a mouse with a squeak in my throat. I was a younger me, standing at the waters edge, watching my friend diving down. Afraid to follow, I hung back, waist deep, until a wave toppled me. I surfaced spluttering, to find myself bathed in sun.

So, here I am, taking a step, finding my footing, raising my voice. I shall let the words fall from crossed fingers, into cyberspace. Some say, we are here once to make our mark, others believe we’ll come again. Whatever the truth, I am owning mine, from this day onwards.