Turner Translate – Is This What You Wanted?

For the next year, me and ace writer Jacey Lamerton from Killer Content are going to help people understand what’s going on at Turner Contemporary. We both love the gallery, and what it’s done for Margate, but can see how sometimes, the way art is talked about puts a barrier between the thing that’s been made and people who might enjoy it.

This year Turner Contemporary have this great sculpture, in place of a Christmas tree:

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And here’s what Turner Contemporary have to say about it:

Visit Turner Contemporary this December and be inspired by Joanne Tatham and Tom O’Sullivan’s alternative Christmas tree installation DOES THE ITERATIVE FIT on our South terrace. This temporary sculptural and audio artwork was commissioned by The Kings Cross Project and originally installed in Granary Square, London over Christmas 2017.

Tatham and O’Sullivan’s sculptures and installations often question the accepted or expected outcomes of contemporary art practice. DOES THE ITERATIVE FIT is a response to and critique of its original commission brief to design a Christmas tree for a busy public space. The resulting sculpture with accompanying soundtrack reimagines the behaviour and meaning of a public artwork and considers the functions that art is expected to perform within the public sphere. The commentary, voiced by an actor, relates the experiences of an art object out in the world, projected through speakers that double as brightly coloured branches.

We thought (inspired in part by this news article) – what if we put that in Plain English, so people can understand it? It’ll make the art more accessible, by helping people understand what they’re seeing. So, we’re going to help out Turner Contemporary (and more importantly, ordinary people in Margate) by translating everything the gallery publish for the next year.

Here’s Jacey’s simplified take on the text about the Christmas tree:

IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?

Tatham and O’Sullivan make sculptures and art pieces that rebel a bit against the ‘art world’.

Someone asked them to design an alternative Christmas tree to be shown in a busy public place.

They came up with this sculpture, which they called DOES THE ITERATIVE FIT?, roughly meaning IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?

Lots of people have fixed ideas about art in public places: we expect things like statues and sculptures to look a certain way.

The idea behind this ‘tree’ is that it doesn’t look like normal public art – and it doesn’t sound like it either. It’s meant to make us think about why we have those set ideas and whether art always has to look a certain way.

If you listen carefully, you’ll realise the brightly coloured ‘branches’ are actually speakers – and you’ll hear an actor talking about what it might be like to be a piece of art, out in the world, with people looking at it.

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The first fifty places for Your England

Your England is an ambitious project – 100 poems, about 100 places, which form a history of England.

My one rule is that I have to have visited everywhere I write about, even if the original building or location has been lost, changed, or reconfigured, so I have a real sense of place. With only a year and a set budget, that will mean some compromises, that some places are just too hard to reach in the time I have.

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All of the poems are sorted into a rough taxonomy:

  • Creativity & Culture
  • Exploration
  • Faith & Religion
  • Industry & Invention
  • Migration
  • Protest & Revolution
  • War & Remembrance

And I’m aiming for a wide geographical split, to cover a variety of faiths and cultures, and (in the poems that are about people) to achieve a 50/50 male-female split, too. It’s a complicated sort.

Just to add some extra complexity, I’ve been asking people to suggest places they think I should go, and I’ll be running workshops with some partners to let more people suggest more places.

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So – based on what I’ve written so far, the suggestions people have made, and where I plan to go next, here are the first fifty(ish) places on the Your England list:

Bedfordshire:
Panacea Society, Bedford

Coventry:
Coventry Cathedral – Basil Spence
Shopfront Theatre, Coventry

Essex:
Tilbury Landing Stage

Isle of Wight:
Ryde Pier

Kent:
The Grange, Ramsgate
Martyrdom, Canterbury Cathedral
Dover Castle – Sir Bertram Home Ramsay
Chatham Docks No 3 Covered Slip
Copperas works, Whitstable

Leeds:
Templeworks

London:
Granville Arcade, Brixton – Oswald Columbus Denniston
St Pancras Station
121 Centre, Brixton and the Rebel Dykes
The Poppy Factory, Richmond
Crossbones Burial Ground
Royal Albert Hall
King Henry’s corridor, Cabinet Office
Charterhouse Square, London
Eel Pie Island
Luna House, Croydon
Olympic Park, Stratford
Gardeners, Spitalfields

Lancashire:
Rochdale Pioneers Shop
Preston Bus Station

Lincolnshire:
St Botolph’s Church, Boston – ‘Boston Stump’

Liverpool:
Mathew Street, Liverpool

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Margate:
Sanger’s journey
The Margate Road
Site of Margate Caves
Rowden Hall Kindertransport Hostel, Margate
Dreamland
Turner Contemporary

Northampton:
78 Derngate, Northampton
Carpetbaggers Aviation Museum

Penrith:
Clarke’s Bench, Penrith
King Arthur’s Round Table, Penrith

Portsmouth & Southsea:
Fort Cumberland, Southsea

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Staffordshire:
Middleport Pottery, Stoke-on-Trent
New Vic Theatre, Newcastle

Somerset:
Glastonbury, Frost Fayre

Somme:
The Lochnagar Crater

Surrey:
Watts Chapel

Sussex:
Shoreham Airport
Gypsy Lee, Bognor
Church of St John sub Castro, Lewes
Cotchford Farm
Towner Gallery

Worthing:
Cissbury Ring
Desert Quartet, Worthing – Elisabeth Frink
Dome Cinema, Worthing

Wiltshire:
Sanger’s journey

Wildcard – all the Canals

Partners:
Turner Contemporary
Shopfront Theatre, Coventry
Dreamland
Towner Gallery

This will, of course, change – and I’m going to have to write more than 100 poems to get 100 that I’m happy with, too. These are the poems already completed:

Clarke’s Bench, Penrith
King Arthur’s Round Table, Penrith
Sanger’s journey
The Margate Road
Site of Margate Caves
Tilbury Landing Stage
Granville Arcade, Brixton – Oswald Columbus Denniston
Coventry Cathedral – Basil Spence
Templeworks
Middleport Pottery, Stoke-on-Trent

 

Your England

From King Arthur’s Round Table in Eden to Winston Churchill at Dover Castle, and from Brixton Market to the rebuilding of Coventry Cathedral, our national story can be found in the buildings all around us.

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In 2016, I sat on a park bench in Penrith which carried a memorial for a forgotten First World War soldier, Pte William Gibson Clarke MM. In exploring his life I found connections to half-a-dozen locations around the UK, uncovered the story of a wave of migration to Canada, and was able to find out how and where Clarke died, in the last hundred days of the war. I wrote a poem about him, which led to a pilgrimage to his grave in Caix British Cemetery, France, revisiting the bench on the centenary of his death – and on the same day the Canadian Legion placing a wreath on the War Memorial in Moosomin where he is remembered.

If a poem about one very ordinary bench in a small municipal park can tell such a complex story, and have such an impact, what can poems about other places around England tell us?

Travelling from one end of England to the other over the last ten years, I have become more and more interested in how the buildings we pass every day – and often overlook – tell stories about our nation’s identity. Interpreting these stories seems even more important at a time when we’re facing a national crisis, at the root of which is the conflict between an idea of our historical place in the world and the reality of our current place in a global system.

In a new project Your England, taking place over the next year, I am going to write 100 poems about 100 places, which together will form a history of England. The individual poems will be sorted in a taxonomy of themes including:

  • Industry & Invention
  • Creativity & Culture
  • Revolution & Protest
  • Migration & Movement
  • War & Remembrance

Over the next couple of weeks, I’ll be having a conversation on social media to find buildings that I should include in the list of 100. Find me on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook  to join in the conversation. I’m looking for places that are distinct, match the themes above, and ideally have a connection to an interesting person, too (alive or dead, famous or unknown).

I hope to be out, exploring the first places and meeting people to talk about them, before Christmas.

Until then, you can read some poems I wrote earlier this year, to test the idea:

And the poem that started the project:

The project is backed by a Project Grant from Arts Council England, and supported by partners including the Towner Gallery, Eastbourne; Dreamland, Margate; Turner Contemporary, Margate; Theatre Absolute, Coventry and Theshold Studios in Northampton. 

Your England performance in Roundabout

Press Release

From King Arthur’s Round Table in Eden to Winston Churchill at Dover Castle, and from Brixton Market to the rebuilding of Coventry Cathedral, our national story can be found in the buildings all around us.

Travelling from one end of the country to the other, before and after the 2016 referendum, artist and writer Dan Thompson has become interested in how the stories told about England’s historic buildings reflect our sense of identity. In a new project, taking place over the next year, he plans to write 100 poems about 100 places, which together will form a history of England.

In this special.performance in pop up theatre Roundabout, Thompson will read some of the first poems written. In this free show he tells the story of the first black trader in Brixton Market, Basil Spence rebuilding Coventry Cathedral after the Blitz, the architect who created an Egyptian temple in Leeds, and the man who discovered Margate’s Shell Grotto.

“The show will appeal to people interested in local history, printing presses, historic buildings, lost rivers, poetry, or the split in society brought about by Brexit,” he says.

Thompson has worked as an artist across the UK, often working with local people to explore the place they live. He made a set of signal flags for Estuary Festival, which subsequently toured as a backdrop with The Libertines, and in 2017 programmed the Estuary Festival in Swansea. He has won Coast’s Unsung Hero Award, been included on The Independent’s Happy List, and listed by Time Out as one of the hundred most influential people in the UK’s creative industries.

He has previously performed a one man show in Roundabout in Stoke and Margate. This one-off performance, titled Your England, takes place at 2.30pm on Friday 21st September. It lasts around 45 minutes and is free. Your England is supported by Marine Studios and is part of the Margate Festival. For more information visit http://www.danthompson.co.uk.

Download Your England – Press Release (pdf)

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The life and death of William Gibson Clarke

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William Gibson Clarke was born on 16th May 1891, in Skipton, North Yorkshire.

Skipton is on the River Aire and the Leeds and Liverpool Canal, south of the Yorkshire Dales and 26 km northwest of Bradford. The name is recorded in the Domesday Book, and a castle built there in 1090 still stands today. Skipton became a prosperous market town, trading sheep and woollen goods, and during the Industrial Revolution became a small mill town connected to the major cities by the Leeds and Liverpool Canal and its branch Thanet Canal, named for Skipton Castle’s owner Sackville Tufton, the 8th Earl of Thanet.

William’s father, Henry Blackwell Clarke, was born just over 80km from Skipton, in Blackpool, in 1866. While in most documents, he is listed as working as a newspaper reporter, by the time of the 1911 census he is a licensed retailer of wines and spirits, living in Ipswich.

22-year-old Henry married 28-year-old Sarah Gibson at St Peter’s, Fleetwood, Lancashire on 29 October 1888. It was his wife’s home town – Sarah was born in 1860, in Fleetwood. Her father was William Gibson, a blacksmith who was born in Scotland (after whom, we can assume, William is named), and her mother was Ann Carter of Garstang.

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In the 1830s, landowner Peter Hesketh, High Sheriff and MP, had conceived an ambitious plan to build a seaport and railway town, just up the coast from Blackpool and on the edge of Morecambe Bay. He commissioned Decimus Burton, who had recently designed St Leonard’s On Sea, a new town just west of Hastings. In 1831 Hesketh added Fleetwood to his name – and gave the name to his new town. Construction started in 1836. By the time of Sarah’s birth, commercial steamers were providing services to the Isle of Man, Ardrossan and Belfast, and the town had a substantial fishing industry.

By 1889, Henry and Sarah had moved inland to Nelson, just north of Burnley, and two years later they had moved further inland to Skipton, where Henry was working as a journalist.

William was the middle of the couple’s three children. He had an older sister Daisy, born in 1889 in Nelson, and a brother, Henry Cecil, born in 1896 in Ipswich.

EMPRESS_OF_IRELAND_-_Sjöhistoriska_museet_-_Fo210199.tif.jpgBefore the First World War, emigration from Britain reached unprecedented levels – over three million people left the UK between 1903 and 1913. The most popular destination was Canada, drawing almost half of Britain’s emigrants. One of them was 18-year-old William, who arrived at St. John’s, New Brunswick, Canada, on the 18th March 1910. He had travelled on the Canadian Pacific Line ship RMS Empress of Ireland, departing from Liverpool.

Just a few years later the Empress of Ireland became a famous ship for all the wrong reasons when, in 1914, she sank near the mouth of the Saint Lawrence River. Following a collision in thick fog with the Norwegian collier SS Storstad, of 1477 passengers on board the Empress, 1012 died. It is the worst peacetime maritime disaster in Canadian history

But in 1911, William arrived safely, hoping to start a new life as a farmer.

But he was working as a waiter and living in Moosomin, Saskatchewan, when he decided to enlist in the army, a year after the outbreak of the First World War. Moosomin had only been established thirty-odd years earlier in 1882. In postcards from the time that William lived there, it looks very much like a prosperous town in the north of England. It had a Baptist Church, a Methodist Chapel, a Presbyterian Congregation and an Episcopal Church

Seymour House Hotel.jpgOn the 22nd December 1915, 24-year-old William enlisted in Winnipeg, Manitoba, giving his address as either Seymour House or (more likely) the Seymour House Hotel. William, 167cm tall, with a dark complexion, brown eyes & brown hair had signed up for the duration of the war.

He was now Private William Gibson Clarke, Service Number 148605, serving in the Manitoba Regiment, 78th Battalion, ‘D’ Coy of the Canadian Infantry. He was one of the Winnipeg Grenadiers, part of 4th Canadian Division, of the Canadian Expeditionary Force (CEF).

He left Halifax, Nova Scotia on board the RMS Empress of Britain  on 20th May 1916 – part of the first deployment of the 78th Battalion. He was returning on the sister ship to the ill-fated Empress of Ireland that had brought him to Canada. The Empress of Britain was a luckier ship. Less than two weeks after disaster struck the RMS Titanic in 1912, Empress of Britain also struck an iceberg – but only suffered minor damage. In May 1915, she was recommissioned as a troop transport and carried more than 110,000 troops. On 4 May 1919, on her last voyage before being scrapped, she returned Canadian Expeditionary Force troops from England to Canada. Sadly, William was not among them.

But on 30th May 1916, he disembarked in Liverpool five years after leaving from the same port.

While in England, William wrote out his will on the 2nd August 1916. It was addressed to his mother, Sarah Clarke, now living at 293, Norwich Road, Ipswich. Later, he updated his will and her address on 11th September 1916 was Haig House, 56, Springfield Land, Ipswich.

Ten days after writing his first will, William embarked at Southampton on 12th August 1916. The Canadians disembarked at Le Havre a day later. The French port had become a major centre for the distribution of troops, horses and goods heading for the Western Front. Manned by the Royal Army Service Corp, it was also No 3 General Base Depot for the Canadian forces.

Sadly, it’s hard to trace the exact movements of William after landing in France. But the 78th Battalion served on the Somme, and at the Battle of Vimy Ridge in the Arras region in 1917. Just north of Vimy is the commune of Souchez. On the 22nd February 1917, the telephone lines between the Advanced Headquarters and the Battalion Headquarters here had been broken. William, and another soldier, were acting as runners, carrying messages from one to the other. They passed through heavy shell fire to do so, and William was rewarded with a Military Medal,  awarded for bravery in the Field.

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He was gazetted on 24th April 1917 – by which date, he had also fought through the Battle of Vimy Ridge. In this battle, the Canadian forces suffered 10,602 casualties: 3598 killed and 7004 wounded. The attack on Vimy Ridge was launched at 5:30 am on Easter Monday, 9 April 1917. Clarke’s Division collapsed almost immediately. Machine gun nests in the German line pinned down, wounded, or killed much of the 4th Canadian Division. Reserves were brought forward, and the attack continued. By the end of the day, the 4th Division had captured objectives that the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Divisions had taken within an hour of starting the battle. It took another three days to take the rest of Vimy Ridge. Vimy Ridge is considered to symbolise Canada’s coming of age as a nation, and William was there. He received his medal on 15th May 1917.

But the toll, particularly on the men of the 4th Division, was huge. On 1st June 1917, William was granted 10 days Leave of Absence, and he returned to the line on 15th June 1917.

Seven months later, he was granted 14 days leave to return to England. He left on 12th January 1918, and returned from leave on 23rd January. While his trip isn’t recorded, it must have been to see his parents, and it would be the last time that Henry and Sarah saw their son.

Two months later, in March 1918, General Ludendorff, the chief of the German General Staff, launched the Kaiserschlacht (Kaiser’s Battle), and it very nearly won the war for Germany. The Germans had replaced the traditional advance with Stormtroop (Stoßtruppen) units, elite infantry operating in small groups that advanced quickly by exploiting gaps and weak defences. They would disrupt communication and cause chaos amongst the British headquarters, artillery units and supply depots in the rear.

On 21st March, Germans attacked on a 69-kilometre front between Arras, St. Quentin and La Fère. On the first day, in thick fog, British communication failed; telephone wires were cut and runners struggled to find their way through the dense fog and heavy shelling. Headquarters were cut off and unable to influence the battle. Within 15 days, the Germans had captured 3,100 km2 of territory, 177,739 British troops were killed, wounded and missing, 75,000 had been taken prisoner, and 1300 artillery pieces and 200 tanks were lost. But the advance was stopped just before Amiens, a vital hub in the British transport system. And the German troops were exhausted, and their supply lines overstretched.

On the 8th August, the British, Australian and Canadian forces launched a massive counterattack which would win them the war. The Canadian 1st, 2nd and 3rd Divisions were first to attack, and as they broke the German lines, William’s 4th Division pushed through the gap. By the end of the morning, they were 4.8km beyond the German front line, and the advance was so fast, they captured German officers having their breakfast.

By the 10th August 1918, William was 50km from Amiens. The speed of the advance was unprecedented. On the 10th, the 78th Battalion passed through Chilly at noon and by 2:00pm seized Hallu. The Germans counter-attacked at Hallu. Lieutenant James Tait of the 78th Battalion rallied his troops when German troops re-entered the village, stopping their advance, though at the cost of his life.

While William was escorting German prisoners back to Brigade Headquarters. an enemy shell fell close to his party. He was severely wounded him in the body and legs, immediately attended to, and then placed on an ambulance to be taken to the nearest dressing station. Aged 27, and having been as far inside the German lines as anyone, William died before reaching hopsital.

The 78th Battalion suffered 46 fatalities in Hallu – of whom 35 were missing, presumed to have been killed in action. William’s body was identified, and he is buried at Caix Cemetery. The cemetery is a walled garden surrounded by farmland, that probably looks much as it did in 1914, before the war started. At the front of the cemetery is a stone cross, and the graves are arranged either side of a central path. You’ll find William’s grave to the left, in the second row of graves. His grave, unusually for a Commonwealth War Graves Commission stone, bears a message from his parents:

‘Our Darling Son. He gave his sweet young life that others may live.’

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Off the Somme tourist trail, 28 kilometres south-east of Amiens, Caix holds the bodies of over 300 British soldiers. 203 of them are Canadian. Just across the road, Caix German Military Cemetery holds the bodies of 1264 German soldiers of World War One.

By the time of William’s death, Henry and Sarah were living at 33 Brunswick Square, Penrith, Cumberland (this address appears on William’s military records, but some other documents including his father Henry’s will have the address as 35).

In the early 1920s, the people of Ipswich hoped to raise £5000 to build a lasting memorial to the men who died in the First World War. It was unveiled on 6th May 1924. In total they raised over £50,000, and the surplus funds went to Ipswich Hospital where, up to 1919, 7777 casualties were treated.

William is remembered there, in Ipswich, where his parents lived at the start of the war, and in the Canadian First World War Book of Remembrance, but not on the war memorial in Penrith, where his parents lived at the end. It was to Penrith that William’s Memorial Scroll was sent on the 23rd March 1922, and his Memorial Plaque on the 1st April 1922.

But Henry and Sarah wanted their son remembered where they lived. In the 1920s, Penrith District Council acquired ownership of Penrith Castle. They landscaped the grounds, adding walkways, lawns and bowling greens. In 1923, the War Memorial Gateway at the main entrance was opened. William’s name isn’t on it. Instead, you’ll find an original 1920s green-slatted park bench with a heavy cast-iron memorial plaque. It says:

‘In memory of Pte William Gibson Clarke, 78th Btn C.I.F. who fell in France 10th Aug. 1918.’

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I sat there and afterwards, asked about him at the local museum: they didn’t know about him, or why there was a bench in the park dedicated to his memory.

His father Henry Blackwell Clarke died in 1935, in Penrith – his mother Sarah Gibson’s death is not recorded. I haven’t traced his brother or sister – some sources say Daisy died as a child, and Penrith’s Queen Elizabeth Grammar School record a Henry Cecil Clarke’s death in a trench raid with the Tyneside Scottish. But – these aren’t certain, and Daisy and Henry may have descendants.

The Moosomin Cenotaph carries the inscription ‘To you from falling hands we throw the torch – be yours to hold high.’ I hope that in remembering one more forgotten soldier, the flame will burn a little brighter.

Thank you to Dawn & Paul Cole, Edward Thompson, to Penrith Remembers, and the Friends of the Lochnagar Crater, especially Iain Ross Fry, Pam Ackroyd

 

Unmade Work: Other Eden

As I clear out my studio, I’m reminded of work that was unfinished, unmade or sometimes wilfully undone.

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On a brief residency in Penrith, I was working on making Other Eden, a pack of cards, each one about an interesting but overlooked local place, custom, or theme. The cards would be used by local shops and cafes to playfully guide visitors off the beaten track and away from familiar paths. (‘Pick a card, any card…’) They’d also be used by the local NHS, facing a recruitment crisis, to show people that the area was interesting enough to be worth moving to.

Sadly, only three images are left – they’re in the slideshow above. The cards featured interesting places crowdsourced from locals (a swimming pool, cafes, a great bookshop), alongside things I’d found through my own research, like the connections of James Joyce, TS Eliot and Kathleen Raine to the town. Other Eden was rejected (by an awful arts organisation I was working with who are based in the town) and remains unmade.

As part of my research, I also made a zine, exploring Penrith’s rich cultural history.  Apart from a couple of artist’s proofs, it has also remained unpublished.

This is an early draft – so there are a couple of things I’d remove, a couple of minor typos, and it doesn’t mention TS Eliot’s stay in the town which I’d add. It starts to head in some interesting directions which, with time, I’d have explored further.

Consider it a sketch, not a finished painting.

Download the Penrith Reader 0.2  (pdf) It should be printed as an A6, folded and stitched booklet.

 

The Lochnagar Quilt exhibited

The Lochnagar Quilt is exhibited at Lombard Street Gallery, Margate from 3-25 February 2018, as part of From Wasteland To Wasteland. The gallery is open Tuesday – Saturday: 11am – 5pm, Sundays: 12 – 4pm, Closed Mondays.

P1220646.JPGThe Lochnagar Crater is as much about what’s not there as about what is.

The vast crater itself is a place that’s missing from the landscape, however many hundreds of tons of chalk and soil removed from surrounding farmland in one defining instant in July 1916.

And it stands today as a memorial to men made absent, the unimaginable 17 million dead and 20 million wounded (some of whom, never really came home, even if their bodies did) by the First World War. The Crater is home to some of those soldiers, killed by the explosion itself, in subsequent battles, or buried within it; but very few bodies have been exhumed.

The exhumation of Private George Nugent from the Crater in 1998 is remarkable because of the rarity of the act.

But more than those obvious absences, taking time to look at the wide and deep crater, or walking the route around its edge, or entering into it as we did, makes you contemplate what else is lost. The physicality of the Lochnagar Crater is an intense experience that art, photography or writing really cannot capture. No artist can capture the way the Lochnagar Crater sits in a calm, managed landscape (so familiar, so like the Sussex and Kent landscapes I know, that I asked a geologist friend; and yes, she said, it’s the same landscape, the same chalk). No artist can record the feeling of standing at the bottom of a space in the landscape that’s the size of a cathedral; the Lochnagar Crater is about as wide as St Paul’s is high.

You cannot really understand the Crater without visiting; art can only record a little of the experience. Each artist, here, has created work that is the size of a person not the size of the Lochnagar Crater. Visiting it does that to you.

So this quilt isn’t an attempt to recreate the crater. The Lochnagar Quilt is white, like the chalk landscape of the Crater and the fields around it. It would cover one sleeping man; one soldier at eternal rest. It is made from vintage pillowcases, which were previously part of Dawn Cole’s Resting Place project. The shape of the crater is taken from tracings of 360 degree photos I took from the bottom and centre, the exact places the mines were laid.

But the making of the quilt is as important as the object itself. The Lochnagar Quilt was made with three important women, who have been made more absent from my life by my move to Margate.

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In choosing to make it with them, I also wanted to remember the women absent from the Somme, from the Lochnagar Crater, and (largely) from the battlefield tours that take place today. This is for the women who turned their skin yellow making the munitions, and for the Munitionettes playing football. It’s for the women who worked as nurses, and as drivers in the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corp. It’s for the women who served in the Women’s Land Corps and the Women’s Land Army. It’s for the people who served in the Women’s Royal Naval Service and the Women’s Royal Air Force. And it’s for the women who stayed at home, and brought up children in such difficult circumstances.

To make the Lochnagar Quilt, I went back to Worthing, to my nan’s house, where I lived for the first year of my life. My nan, Betty Stiles, used to be a dancer, and is an award-winning quilter.

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My aunt, Linda Rush, joined us; a textile artist and illustrator, she trained at West Sussex College of Art & Design. And my mum, Netta Thompson, was the third. She used to have her own company, making costume for children for school history days and reenactments, and while she now works in a factory making precision electronics, she still works occasionally as a wardrobe mistress for a touring theatre company.

We talked about the experience of my visit to the Lochnagar Crater, the impact of the First World War on our family (my mum and aunt spoke of the look in their grandad’s eyes), our collective worries about war, as we designed, cut, ironed and stitched together over one long weekend. By the end, we had a rough shape, tacked together. But over the subsequent weeks they did the hard work – their stitching is better than mine. Their hands have spent hours on this quilt; about a dozen hours to quilt the crater alone. They refused to machine stitch; that’s the wrong way to quilt.

And something like this, the making itself an act of remembrance, should be done the right way.

Dan Thompson, Margate, 2017

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Middleport Pottery, Burslem

This is the fourth poem from a larger collection of mostly new poems. This collection is an attempt to write a picture of England in 2017, through a series of poems about buildings, places and the stories they tell. It is based on my travel and research. I’m aiming for 100 poems.

I won’t publish them all online: I want them to appear in print. But – I want to give people a flavour. You can read others here.

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Middleport, Burslem

Here in the model pottery,
within this brickbuilt O,
the process of making is
refined, closed, looped.

The circle is square:
each piece of ware is
handled
by twenty five people,
and the distance from
hand-to-hand is short,
here men and women are
efficient as machines.

Alleyways are wide as cart and horse.
Each shop is closed, controlled;
even the air works well.
Here architecture is the
servant of art and science.

The Seven Oven Alchemical Works;
thick earth made to slip,
black smoke.
Boulton’s steam engine.
Rain saved in header tanks.
Held in the leyline curve of
the Trent and Mersey Canal.
This place is earth, fire,
air, water, metal –
elemental.
Here clay is made into gold.

The Famous Dr Nelson’s Improved Inhaler,
pudding bowls for the war effort,
Ernest Bailey’s kangaroo jugs for Australia,
Copeland’s designs ‘as if from outer space’,

The globe is all over Burleigh Ware
and Burleigh Ware is all over the globe.

Coventry

This is a third poem from a larger collection of mostly new poems. I won’t publish them all online: I want them to appear in print. But – I want to give people a flavour. You can read others here.

It is an attempt to write a picture of England in 2017, through a series of poems about place. It is based on my travel and research. I’m aiming for 100 poems.

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Coventry

“Basil Spence is a prophet
Who seeks to proclaim the Word of God
In modern ways”

Spence had liberated Chartres, cold and dead;
he knew churches needed life –
so started with a model
that cost as much as a house,
for the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition;

then he built his new cathedral
from the inside out.
Fed by Bishop Gorton’s understanding
of people and liturgy,
of choir and canons and clergy and communion,

Spence drew pools of lightness,
wove tapestry in stone,
coloured glass, etched glass, copper frames,

thought about the fastness of dye,
the geodetic construction of a bomber,
Gothic ribs, the facets of a fly’s eye,
radio pylons as he reached higher, further.

“It is going to be built, it is going to be built”
in Spain, over and over and over,
until English ideas and Danish engineering
let the disciplined grid of Spence’s vaulted ceiling soar.

John Laings, builders,
gave all their profits back.

The last flame from the burnt cathedral
lit candles on the newest altar;
the first and last,
alive for evermore amen.

The Turner Prize is coming to Margate

In 2019, the Turner Prize hits the regions again – and while it’s recently gone to big cities like Glasgow (population 600,000 – 1,000,000) and Hull (population 260,000) this time, it’s coming to Turner Contemporary, Margate (population 40,000).

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A big show in a small town will have a huge impact; in Glasgow the show attracted 75,000 visitors, at the Baltic in Gateshead 149,770, and it’s reasonable to expect more in a venue only 1.5 hours from London by train. And especially, in a place that already fills with London visitors every weekend. Turner Contemporary has been an incredible success, and its most successful show was Grayson Perry’s Provincial Punk, with 192,177 visitors – so that’s the target to beat.

The Turner Prize comes at a key time for Turner Contemporary, too. Opened in 2011, visitor numbers would be expected to drop off a little about now – Dreamland’s two reopenings (first in 2015, then again while still in administration in 2017) have undoubtedly helped keep numbers up for the gallery, so an extra publicity boost in 2019 is a good thing.

The gallery are keen to look for a long-term impact from the Turner Prize, and are keen to engage local people in a conversation about how to maximise the show’s impact. It’s worth remembering that Turner Contemporary owes its success to a local ecology of cafes, small independent galleries, boutiques and vintage shops that mean a two hour gallery visit can easily become a weekend stay. Day trippers are bad for the economy: they typically cost more to attract and to service than they spend locally. So making Margate a place where you can spend a weekend is vital to both the gallery’s and the area’s long term success.

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The first open conversation about the Turner Prize was held at Turner Contemporary yesterday. About forty people attended, representing a mix of local authorities, arts organisations, and visitor attractions. It was clear from the attendance that the show was attracting interest from Canterbury, and the wider East Kent area. Artists were keen to be in the room, and were vocal contributors. There were notable local absences, too – nobody from Dreamland, for example.

 

The conversation took the (dreaded) World Cafe format – where you sit around tables, have a guided discussion around a central proposition, write your thoughts on the tablecloth and then move to the next table and the next proposition. I can see there are merits to this methodology; but it’s used at every Turner Contemporary event, and the central propositions are never strong enough for a real debate. Can anyone argue strongly around ‘People of all backgrounds should be able to thrive’?

Having spent 17 years attending meetings very much like this, I’m always amazed by the lack of ambition these events bring out. Most of the discussion focused on things so obvious, it’s hard to believe they’re being discussed and not done. We should ensure visitors can find other attractions, we should link up with nearby attractions, we should ensure local people come to the gallery, we should welcome people at the station and so on. Well, yes.

The Turner Prize has the possibility of being a big gear change for Turner Contemporary and everyone involved in the local creative ecology. It also has the potential to misfire, as it’s always controversial – the potential to accelerate the way property funds are buying up the area and do real damage to affordable living locally – and perhaps worst, the potential to just be another show at Turner, which many local people still don’t visit.

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So – in the spirit of starting a proper conversation, here are my ambitions for Turner Contemporary and the Turner Prize. This isn’t a costed, prepared plan – it’s a quick response to yesterday’s event. And it’s not everything; of course we should join up with other local attractions (Margate Caves open their new visitor centre in 2019), encourage more local people to visit and so on. That’s all a given. But here’s some ambition.

1. More Turner, everywhere

Turner Contemporary is a charity, established to stimulate Margate’s culture-led regeneration. That’s worked, and there’s a vibrant creative ecology around Margate – but it’s fragile. Rent is already going up; artists are already leaving. Currently, Thanet District Council is undergoing a massive asset disposal – small buildings, workshops, and anything not needed for core service delivery is going. So here’s the idea: Turner Contemporary should become the preferred new owner for any assets being disposed of. Between now and the Turner Prize, Turner Contemporary should take on a range of buildings around the town. Some can be let as studios or workshops, some as residential space for artists, some let commercially to generate extra income, some run as Turner Contemporary satellites. For example, as Northdown Road’s footfall is growing, a Costa has opened. Turner Contemporary has driven that footfall – it should be a Turner Contemporary coffee shop that reaps the rewards. A bold move, but acts like this would create additional income streams, and maintain, preserve and enhance the ecology around Turner Contemporary, and make sure it doesn’t become a victim of its own success: a gallery surrounded by Costa, Cath Kidston and White Stuff isn’t worth a weekend stay.

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2. Everyone’s connected to Turner

Turner Contemporary should become the major training body in Margate. It shouldn’t just train people in unambitious ways, to be volunteers in their own gallery; it should support proper job training across the area. Coffee shops would have Turner Contemporary-supported baristas, cafes would have Turner Contemporary trained chefs, shop staff will attend subsidised Turner Contemporary training courses, teaching assistants and nursery staff will be taught at Turner Contemporary, and local electricians will learn new specialist skills with the gallery’s help. At the same time, Turner Contemporary should develop apprenticeships in all the roles it needs, from Front of House to maintenance. Again, this is about that ecology: Turner Contemporary’s success is because of the Old Town, the lower High Street, and increasingly Northdown Road. If you’re attracting visitors to Turner Contemporary, your customer care extends outside the gallery to all those places, so making them good is protecting your name and reputation. And at the same time, you’re ensuring that young people locally have good quality jobs, and real prospects. In an area where 50% of children are still growing up in poverty, that’s vital.

3. Chipperfield hacked

Let’s hack the Turner Contemporary architecture. The building, by David Chipperfield, is a few years old and we know its limitations now. The outside plaza is underused, the legibility of the front of the building is awful, the front doors are unfriendly and stick, the foyer is a dead space. The green space at the side is unloved and never used. The space between Turner Contemporary and the sea is a carpark, recently vandalised with clumsy road markings. The outside of Turner Contemporary lacks the life the inside has. Jane Jacobs would hate it. Margate is brilliant at using space – look at the slightly chaotic life of the Harbour Arm, the buzz around the Sundeck at Nayland Rock, or the anarchic spirit of Fort Road Yard. And when Turner Contemporary has used those spaces – for example, with Dwelling for Summer of Colour (pictured), it’s been transformational. By the time the Turner Prize arrives, let’s have a plan in place for the front, the outside, and the areas around Turner Contemporary; let’s make Turner Contemporary a place, not a building.

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4. Bored

Turner Contemporary should be governed by the people it represents and works with. The Board of Trustees  does great work in keeping the gallery going, but the mix of people from the banking sector, big organisations and art world establishment could do with hearing more local voices. The typical local panel or representative group is still an exercise in power: and doesn’t encourage real listening and debate. There should be three local board members, chosen for their potential: they should be given support and training to join the board and a mentor to help them become confident contributors.

If we do this right – all the other stuff will happen, because Turner Contemporary will be properly rooted in Margate.

 

Programming the Troublemakers’ Festival for Swansea

 

dan-thompson-11.jpgCan the arts offer meaning, enjoyment – and be a force for change?

For the Troublemakers’ Festival in Swansea, I tried to create an event which was rooted locally, had proper depth, and inspired people to take real action. Commissioned as programmer by the From The Station To The Sea project, I started with what was there already. The festival was built around existing venues – a theatre space, Oxfam bookshop, independent gallery, artist-led studios, a shop-sized cinema, a pub, an artist-led centre in old offices, local cafes, a sewing workshop. I added events and activity which enhanced them, added depth to them, encouraged people to see them in different ways, or brought in different audiences to these existing venues.

In closing the High Street to traffic for two days, we not only tested an idea local campaigners had long talked about, but we created a physical connection between these buildings and spaces. The High Street is usually very anti-pedestrian: crossings are limited, sight lines poor, and the traffic discourages casual browsing from shop to shop, reduces dwell time, and disrupts the useful permeability offered by lanes and alleys running off the High Street.

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Picture: Theatre Lane by  Simone Sheridan for Troublemakers’ Festival. By Dan Thompson

The aim of building on existing venues seemed to be achieved: Galerie Simpson reported their most successful event, people visited Volcano Theatre, Cinema & Co, the Tech Hub Basement Cafe, Sew Swansea and other venues for the first time. The High Street Skate Jam showed a wide audience an activity that’s usually indoors and hidden. One 79-year-old who usually avoids High Street enjoyed the Skate Jam so much, he casually suggested it should become permanent. Local cafes reported good takings: two reported their busiest ever weekends.

In crossing over audiences – bringing together social justice talks alongside skateboarding, sewing alongside stand up – people were (unconsciously and apparently accidentally) exposed to new experiences. The festival also encouraged people to move from one thing to another, and to get more deeply involved; if you saw an artist you liked, you could come and hear them talk, and then maybe join a workshop.

People just passing through, and regular High Street users like the street drinkers, were also offered new experiences and a chance to engage: some watched, some took part, some had interesting conversations with artists and other people involved in Troublemakers’. Nobody was moved on: the usual life of the street was disrupted, but not stopped.

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This planning went deeper, too. I am frustrated by speaking at events where there’s no time for acts and audiences to come together. And I am annoyed by artists who “attend an open mic and leave as soon as you’ve done your shitty little poem or song.” So artists were booked to stay for the weekend, expected to do a short talk about their work, and invited to join audience, volunteers and the production team in an open lunch every day. In return – they were given a wide brief, and invited to create work they really wanted to make.

Some of the artists came together long before the Troublemakers’ Festival, to meet at my studio. It was interesting subsequently, during the festival, to see them act as friends, supporting each other’s events, and to see more experienced artists mentoring emerging ones.

Most of the commissioning budget was spent in more interesting ways than booking artists I knew and taking them to Swansea, though. We commissioned much activity through open calls and local meetings, and ran three commissioning strands which brought very different work to the festival.

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The local WI meet on the High Street, and they were given a commissioning budget and invited to write a brief for an artist. Being unused to commissioning and unfamiliar with the ways artists talk about work, it was an interesting process and it resulted in one of the best commissions of the festival.

Office staff who are based on the High Street were also invited to commission a piece. Working with Coastal Housing staff in this way enabled them to understand and have ownership of the festival, so they were better able to talk to their local tenants about the Troublemakers’ Festival. Coastal’s tenants were given first notice of the festival, and were offered advance tickets for some events we expected to sell out.

A ‘Disruption’ thread saw a variety of artists given £500 micro-commissions, and as these were street based, they provided the outside links between spaces in more interesting ways than if we’d just commissioned street entertainers or buskers.

Woven through the festival were a series of magic moments: a protest march by disabled children demanding a zebra crossing for their school, the appearance of a dragon, an attempt to levitate the Palace Theatre, a suffragette leading a crowd of followers, a wildly optimistic protest march, a graffitied motor car, a local version of the Obby Oss. These all help people see the street in a different way: the memory of them will linger.

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Overall, we counted over 4000 on the High Street while it was closed, and over 1000 at other events, performances and workshops. The festival engaged even more online, gaining worldwide attention through films of the High Street used as a skatepark. Our final event was a WI meeting: the usual attendance of around 15 people swelled to more than 80.

At the end of Sunday’s road closure, we brought people back into the Volcano Theatre. People inspired by the previous four days of activity were invited to give a one-minute pitch, with the public voting for their favourite which would get a £500 kickstart. The public votes to put pianos in venues across Swansea – an idea pitched by a 16-year-old woman. Other people stood up – and pledged to make their ideas happen anyway. Swansea will, for example, have its first Fun Palace this October.

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And I’m currently writing a Manifesto For the High Street, based on ideas people contributed throughout the festival and during a series of workshops I ran with local people.

So Troublemakers’ Festival has had a real impact. It has built on existing activity, and helped increase audiences. And it has generated new grassroots initiatives, too. It has shown the potential of a street many had written off, and brought people back to rediscover the architecture, life, and businesses that are there. 

It highlighted the High Street’s interesting past, but made clear it has an interesting future, too.

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Picture: Troublemakers’ exhibition at Volcano. By Dan Thompson.

All other pictures by Math Roberts, commissioned to be photographer in residence by Troublemakers’ Festival

Troublemakers’ wouldn’t have happened without other people. So thank you to: Carrie, Claud, Paul, Vic, Kay, Barbara and all the team at Volcano, Huw and Coastal Housing, Caroline, Carys, and all the Troublemakers’ Festival production team, all the Troublemakers’ Festival volunteers – an exceptional bunch, all the venues involved, Tasha at Sew Swansea for constant support for many years, Phil at Oxfam for being an inspiration, Anna at Cinema & Co who let me screen Passport To Pimlico, Exist and everyone who skated or DJ’d, Swansea’s cycling community, Swansea Central WI (mainly for cake), Patrick Driscall, Mark Rees, and – of course – all the artists but especially Bernadette, Charlie, Stella, Tasha and Mark who all helped me shape Troublemakers’, and Sarah, Simone, Deborah and the Gaggle cast, Rob and the Sign of the Times team, the Unfair Funfair gang, Stephen and the levitators, Math, Lee, Sam and Julia, Tim, Nazma, Mark, Mr & Mrs Clark, Ariane and Graham,  Mark Thomas, and finally – the High Street businesses who coped with lots of extra people and a little bit of chaos.

Brixton

This is a second poem from a larger collection of mostly new poems. I won’t publish them all online: I want them to appear in print. But – I want to give people a flavour. You can read another, from Penrith, here.

It is an attempt to write a picture of England in 2017, through a series of poems about place. It is based on my travel and research. I anticipate that, when complete, there will at least a hundred poems.

This is about Oswald Denniston, my Windrush hero. He was very much in my mind while making my work for Estuary Festival last year (pictured below).

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Brixton


For Oswald “Columbus” Manoah Denniston, signwriter and market trader, born 24th May 1913; died 3rd February 2000.

Move us on ‘cos
we ain’t got a licence:
we carry rolled cloth
on our backs, use
our yard-wand as
a walking stick:
if we sell you short
it’s because we
walk so far we’ve
worn it down an inch
or maybe two.

We walk the markets, streets, arcades.

We know the sandwich man –
Consult Madame Sandra,
Palmist, Clairvoyant –

The Man With The X-Ray Eyes –
he’ll guess your age, and maybe
throw in a horoscope –

The German Accordion Player –
who worked his way up from
tin whistle, mouth organ. We

know Mr Columbus, explorer,
navigator, who travelled from
Montego Bay to sell fabric in
Brixton Market: fancy cloth,
rich thread, always a story;
cloth woven with the promise
of adventure.

When Columbus arrived he
was a signwriter: knew the
right weight of paint on a brush –
sable brush, with chisel edge –
balanced mahlstick, measure,
soft pencil for marking-up;

pounce, pot, kettle,
spirit, chamois.

Arrived, Tilbury, gave cheers,
and raised his Anthony Eden hat.

And – in thanks for his thanks,
gained employment –
this new, old world –
his Mother country,
wanted, welcomed him.

Mr Columbus,
the first black to
join the cycling club.

Founder of the
Association
Of Jamaicans.

Calypso, skiffle, rock and roll –
Mr Columbus imported a juke box,
and an Italian coffee machine –
created warmth in a
cold harbour.

Then Columbus came here, the
market, arched-roof Granville Arcade –
set up amongst the Jews, emigres –
with his rich, coloured African cloth.

This was the place – poets, politicians,
artists, makers, movers, shakers;
Lord Kitchener, Darcus Howe, Sir
Herman Ouseley, Linton Kwesi Johnson;
the conversations, talk, discussion
lasted days, weeks – maybe never ended –
Jamaicans are happy-go-lucky people.
When you have more than six you have a party.
This formica-topped market table,
became our field of the cloth of gold.

Explorer, navigator:
Mr Columbus
came looking for an old world
but made a new one instead.


Penrith

This is from a larger collection of mostly new poems. It is an attempt to write a picture of England in 2017, through a series of poems about place. It is based on my travel and research. I anticipate that, when complete, there will at least fifty poems.

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Penrith

 

In memory of Private William Gibson Clarke, Military Medal, who fell in France 10th August, 1918.

Our son was lost in 1918.
Our son was lost again,
somewhere in
carbonic paper, typists,
foolscap quarto, in 1923.

In a wooden drawer
of indexed cards in the
new Town Hall, he was an
anomaly in the town clerk’s
taxonomy of the dead.

We are a Penrith family,
Primitive Methodists,
live here in redstone
Brunswick Square.

Our son was wearing
socks, vests from Arnison’s
when he was decorated
for bravery at Vimy Ridge.

But – earlier, he left our
old world for a new one –
emigrated to Canada.
Waited tables, when he
heard the mother country
calling,
enlisted in Manitoba, 1915.

He died, in the last hundred days,
at Le Quesnel; he had travelled
the farthest of all the Allied men;
eight miles into German lines; he
was there at the start of the end.

Here, home, in Penrith
we asked for his name
to be added to the
memorial gateway in
Castle Park: no, they
said; he’s a colonial.

So, instead, we saved and paid
for this; a bench, in the park
where he played. Here he
is remembered: we hope in
a hundred years somebody
will read the cast iron words,
that will outlive us
as we outlived him,
sit here, know who he was.

Stoke, 2045

A chapter from It’s All About The Road

He dreamed of rides like this. A stiff backwind pushing him on, the roads clear, all the way down from Hanley. Leaving the factory he’d been working in, downhill, turning towards home and there was the wind, pushing him down the long straight road that seemed to balance, tipping away to the valley on one side. Homes on one side, terraces; industry on the other.

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An old elephant outside a warehouse, years of layers of paint glowing in the low evening sun, held behind a chainlink fence in case it tried to run down the road. Fibreglass advert for some company that had long since gone. But
no easy way to get rid of an elephant, so it stayed. Straight on, the wind a hand pushing him, the teeth catching perfectly with each gear change, smooth. No cars, just trams and bicycles all the way down the road clear straight past the university. Dip down under the railway bridge, low rumble as the London train crossed overhead, up and across the canal and the road, three lines of transport, connection, transit running parallel. Rail to Europe, motorway to London, canals to the docks and the sea. Left, and a dogleg through the town centre, curving round the old town hall,

Spode Village to the right, where the money stacked up, slowing to pass through the Thursday night drinkers outside the pub on the corner.

He glanced towards the night market opening up, a tram unloading passengers, the smell of street food, first customers. In the morning this was a food market, fresh potatoes, kale, beans, carrots from the city farms that had filled the corridor where the old Garden Festival had been, repurposed the old industrial sites alongside the canal towards Burslem, cleaned the dirty soil with fresh growth.

But in the evening the market cooked the produce; Chinese, Caribbean, Polish, Nepalese streetfood alongside Stoke Oatcakes and local ale, made with Trent water.

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Cycled on, right and a short push uphill, pounding, adrenalin slamming as he turned left onto London Road, the last kilometre to home. On the right, the Library Club and Art College, a low susurration (chat, guitar, fiddle) as the day’s lectures, debates, discussions ended in drink and dancing. In an hour, they’d fill the night market, the first pints from the college’s tiny bar making them hungry.

The solar panels on the roof of the market would have charged the batteries enough and the soundsystems would play until well after dark. He’d come back later, once the dancing had started.

But for now straight on, the baked dry biscuit smell of the big pottery, firing all day now, third largest in all of Stoke. Half a million pieces of ware rolling off the lines every week. Scottish machinery at the sharp edge, Japanese touch screen control, but English hands still touching everything produced.

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He passed The Villas on his right, blockpaved road straight up the hill, halfway up gaslight flared in a lamp. An old electric light converted to burn bio-waste; some strange conservationist in-joke. He was slightly obsessed by these houses, the hopes and aspirations of Victorian industrial revolutionaries made in brick. Elegant, European, classical yet oddly post-modern, very English. Now they were home to the people who grew up and graduated from lofts in the Spode Village, moving to here when they had children. University lecturers, cloud technicians, graphic designers, digital musicians. Mid-21st century techno bohemia.

On, a last right turn, and then standing on the pedals for the last push up the steep hill to home, Penkville Street, standing, the muscle in his calves straining, standing, as gravity and the steep degrees of the landscape pushed against him at the end of a flying ride. Mid terrace house, old front door painted rich gloss blue. Sash windows, metal column between them topped with tangled gothic foliage. Through the door, muscles burning, lungs suddenly empty now he’d stopped moving, as if the onward momentum had been pushing the air into him, inflating his lungs.

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He lent the bike against the wall, white Michelin tyres reflecting on black Minton tiles. Took off his shoulder bag. A Chapman Satchel, 30 years old, waterproof British woven tough blue Cordura, red strap faded to pink, ash toggles. Handmade in Cumbria. Thin trail of soft black road dirt on the underside but that would wipe off. A good bag for his tablet, and the tangle of cables and adaptors he used to jack into any of the machines in any of the potteries he worked with. Uploading new specs, tweaking the slip mix to a different purpose, adjusting the angle of printer nozzles, making the spinning 3D models the designers worked on in light and pixels into real clay shapes. Listening in to the machines on Flare Audio cans, the bubble of slip in the printer’s pipes like blood in veins

Bent over, pulling his jacket over his head, head spinning as the excitement of the ride crashed in. Vertigo, a short hard version of jetlag, the post-cycle rush like the instant hit of short black coffee. Threw the jacket on the stairs by the bag, then pushed himself upright, straightened, turned and wheeled the bike through to the back of the house.

It was his regular ride, a handbuilt, Lee Cooper of Coventry, lugged steel. 50 years old, sky blue paint waxed and polished to a perfect shine. Every Sunday, road dirt brushed off, degreased with Dirty Harry, three coats of hand-rubbed wax in the room at the back of the terraced house. He wheeled it back there. Other bikes against the wall An old red Saffron Frameworks, a white Ellis Briggs from Shipley, older than the Lee Cooper. He laid the sky blue against the white against the red.

And on the wall, golden yellow, the finest bicycle he owned, held on the wall by two brackets, the frame wrapped in old cotton where the clamps held it. A religious object, pinned to the wall for worship. Cycling shrine, like the niche carved to hold a pottery representation of a household god in a Roman villa. A Brian Rourke frame, seventy years old, made to the leg measurements of a forgotten rider, found in a secondhand shop on London Road. Fastest bicycles in Britain. BR crest transfer on the headset over the words in small, plain type, ‘Made In Stoke’. His next project, a month of weekends planned, the stripped parts carefully labelled in wooden trays on the side. New cables coiled ready, tense with potential energy.

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He liked to know where things came from. Chapman bag. British Boxers from Leek, Hiut Denim jeans made in Wales, Josery polo shirts from Hucknall, Norman Walsh shoes, Flare headphones from Sussex. In the kitchen he sliced London Road Bakehouse bread, dropped two slices into a British-built Dualit toaster, filled and turned on the matching kettle. Pulled out a plate, took the teapot down from the cupboard, and a mug; no doubt about where they were made. Portmeirion Pottery. Down the road, the smell of the kilns that baked these pieces of ware was on the air he breathed every day.

He put the tea and toast on a tray, carried it back to the front of the house. Put the tray on top of a pile of old magazines, real old. From newspapers, from the days when newspapers were printed, last century. He’d found this whole box of them in a house clearance round the corner, pulled out of a corner of the coach house at the end of the garden. Daily Telegraph, ‘Myicuria’ penned in the right hand corner on each cover. Full of stories which made no sense, time captured, moments lost in time like tears in the rain. He’d bought a box of crockery, Biltons; one of the lost and forgotten local potteries, insignificant in the history of industry.

Some old tools, thick with grease, ‘Made In Sheffield’. And this box of old magazines. If he wasn’t careful the First Law would kick in, the house would fill with kipple, there would be whole rooms he couldn’t enter any more.

Shard ruck, a room like a shard ruck.

But he liked to gather old things, collect stories, imagine who had owned them. In the gathering of magazines, books, old bookmarks, postcards, in the dark metal tools and battered old tins, in the old cabinets of worthless pottery ware; in all of it, he could see threads, connections and patterns.

Somewhere was the point it all came together, here in Stoke, the node.

He poured the tea, English tea.

The new, nomadic Agora

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The Agora was the central public space in ancient Greek city-states. The word means either gathering place or assembly. The agora brought together the artistic, spiritual, civic and political life of the city in one space; it was a space for creating social capital.

The Agora is an idea I’ve explored previously, in empty shops – the long-running WorkShop series  (2010-15) came out of a Shoreham-by-Sea project called Agora.

The new, nomadic Agora is a mobile intervention, which will appear in everyday places.

AIRTime Belfast

Agora will travel the UK. As part of the Troublemakers’ Festival, the Swansea Agora will appear in five different locations on five days for five one-hour sessions. The Margate Agora will appear a few times in different places during the Margate Festival. Stoke Agora will happen as part of Festival Stoke.  Short, sharp versions are being planned for London, Eastbourne, and Worthing.

Agora is a social artwork, and in each iteration, I will sit down with about ten people for an hour to have a conversation about local life. A range of prompts and simple activities will be provided. It’ll be a conversation in Plain English, using everyday examples, about citizenship, social capital and democracy.

Tea party at Workshop 24

All the local conversations will become part of a wider artwork about the UK’s identity and ideas of citizenship at this time of change. The things people say and do in each place will travel on to the next.

At the end, I’ll produce a state-of-the-nation piece, in writing but also as an exhibition at my studio. Whichever way the general election goes, we’ve fallen apart as a country and it’s time to work out what’s next: our politicians have failed us in that, and it’s time for citizens to talk.

 

Natural capital gets lots of air time because banks – in their ongoing quest to own the world – like to invest. Social capital? Not so much.  Dan Thompson bangs the drum on behalf of all of us. He is expert at unlocking potential in people and places that are ignored. Lucy Siegle

Tips for Running Difficult Meetings

Demo at NestaI have run lots of meetings. You can make them useful not angry. Easily. I learnt this stuff by being ambushed and working it out.

I was at a meeting tonight where it all went really wrong, really quickly.

Ideally – don’t have meetings, but do something together and talk as you do it. But when you do need a meeting, here are six steps for running one with a likely-to-be-angry group:

1. Welcome everyone with tea and coffee. Talk to them as they come in: they will be less angry if you’ve looked them in the eye, told them your name, said hello.

2. Don’t have a top table – if you do, it’s them and us. Use groups or lumps of chairs or a cabaret-style layout. Change the dynamic of the room with the furniture.

3. Make feedback mechanisms easy from the start: have tables with activities, or boards with Post-its. Let people unload some of their anger before the meeting starts – and start by saying ‘we’re listening to you’.

4. Give gifts. A badge, pencil, notebook or something small. It makes it an exchange. ‘Thank you for coming. In return for your valuable opinions, here’s something back.’

5. Give something extra, so that the people who’ve come are the special ones. George at Maybridge Boys Club used to drum into us children ‘you’re all VIPs’. Treat people like VIPs. Start with ‘here’s a tour of venue’ or ‘here’s a behind-scenes film that nobody else has seen’.

6. There will be questions and you will have to answer. Make the Q&A in groups, around tables or around interactive activity. Not you against the whole crowd.

 

He Do The Police In Different Voices – A Trumppoem

A to be for to an election?
A NEW LOW!
All across the country
A good lawyer 
             And the many roles they serve that are 
A great case 
             A race
An incredible spirit of
 Added missiles
American people will come way down!
A complete and total disaster - is imploding fast!
Battlefield
Bad (or sick) guy!
Buy American
Competition in the Drug Industry 
                                Competition
Congratulations! 
Could make out of the fact that was in October 
Court earlier
             Crimea
Despite what you hear in the press
Don't let the FAKE NEWS
Don't worry
Down by
Drug
     Election election
                      Election!


Eight years
FAKE NEWS


For Russia got 
              For 
 For the 
        Getting major things done!
Getting rid of state lines
Good lawyer
 Got stronger and stronger!
Great discussion!
Great news, great rallies
Gone to tapp my phones


Healthcare is coming along great
Healthcare rollout 
                  How low
Hire American
I am working on a new system
I'd bet
       I have tremendous respect for women 
Is it legal


It will end in a beautiful picture!
Just prior to
JOBS, JOBS, JOBS!
JOBS!
Make America Great Again!


New Healthcare Bill
                   Now out for review and negotiation and
Optimism
Our wonderful new Healthcare Bill
Obamacare
Obama
Picked-off Crimea
President Obama 
President Obama 
President Obama
President prior pricing for the principles "ran over",
Released 

         Returned to the returned to the
 Sitting President
Stronger and stronger 
Sweeping the country
 

Tapp my phones Tapp Tapping my phones


Thank you
Thank you
There is right now—
 There is - 
There is big infighting in the Trump Admin
This is Nixon/Watergate.
Tremendous support.


Turned down by
Very sacred vicious prisoners
                            vital to the fabric of our society and our economy


We are talking to many groups
We are getting along great
We're bringing back the JOBS!
We are only just beginning 
                          "wire tapping"


Wonderful wonderful
Weak!

This is a cut-up poem, made from the text of about twenty of President Trump’s most recent Tweets. I cut out key phrases, and arranged them roughly alphabetically. This poem should be read out loud. It’s my first Trumppoem – there will be more.

 

From Wasteland to Wasteland

MineCratersStEloi.jpg

I’m taking my minor obsession with TS Eliot’s The Waste Land even further – making new work inspired by an event that happened over 100 years ago in a new project called From Wasteland to Wasteland.

On the first day of the Battle of the Somme in 1916, Captain James Young of the 179th Tunnelling Company, Royal Engineers pressed a switch. He detonated two explosive charges in tunnels dug through chalk from the British trenches to a position under the German front line.

Captain Young had blown the mine at La Boisselle, creating a single, vast, smooth sided, flat bottomed crater measuring nearly 100 metres across and 21 metres deep. Now known as the Lochnagar Crater, it is the largest crater ever made by man in anger, and it serves as a unique memorial to all those who suffered in the Great War.

Five years later, after suffering a nervous breakdown, TS Eliot travelled to Margate to rest. Working for the Foreign & Colonial Branch of Lloyds Bank, Eliot was responsible for working out war reparation payments. Sitting in a seafront shelter, and inspired in part by  his job and the horror of the First World War, he wrote his epic poem The Waste Land.

Award-winning printmaker Dawn Cole (who I’m also collaborating with on the StArt The Press project) is known for her work exploring stories from the First World War. She visited Lochnagar Crater in 2015.

Inspired by the dramatic site, the manmade landscape, and the stories behind it, she has brought together a small group of us. Together, we’re going to visit the battlefield site, draw connections with TS Eliot’s poem, and make new work as a response. We’re a diverse group, from different backgrounds and with different practices.

Portugese artist Helder Clara uses arduous processes to make objects, installations, sculpture, printing, performance, paintings, and photographic documentation. He has exhibited work in Margate and Hastings.

Lorna Dallas-Conte has a fascination with colour and an interest in traditional craft skills. Her work looks at transformation, manifesting energy, and honouring the sacred. As a commended creative business adviser and academic she combines the different strands of her work together seeing their totality as her practice. She has exhibited in London, Surrey and Kent and is a published researcher.

Graham Ward is a painter, working in egg tempera and acrylics on board. His work is based on sacred themes, and is strongly influenced by pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela. Ward studied illustration in Manchester and painting at Stoke. He has exhibited widely in the United Kingdom and Europe, with solo exhibitions in London, Edinburgh, Paris and Berlin.

Supported using public funding by Arts Council England, we travel together to see the Lochnagar Crater next week. We’ll record the visit and make new work which will be presented at a First Friday event at Marine Studios, Margate on Friday 2nd June.

First Fridays have been held at Marine Studios most months since November 2009. The events are driven by a curiosity about the world and a belief that events bring communities together. Previous First Friday events have included performances, book launches, films, exhibitions, talks, installations and even picnics. First Friday runs from 6.30-8.30pm, is free, and is open to all.

The plan is that we’ll continue to work together after our initial exploration, with a view to holding an exhibition in 2021, the centenary of Eliot’s time in Margate. For more information and to follow the project as it unfolds, visit dawncole.co.uk.

 

In Margate, still making the case I made in Worthing; creativity equals jobs.

We know that steel’s an industry, that car-making in the UK means jobs, and that coal-mining’s real work. But what about a British industry that’s one pixel deep, that sees big companies operate from spare rooms, and where the raw materials are whatever the imagination can make?

Kent’s GEEK festival celebrates the UK’s computer games industry, and the creative sector jobs built around it.

6972228767_df88d58d78_oAnd here in Margate, as part of the team helping make GEEK happen this year, I find myself making the same arguments for the creative sector I had to make in Worthing between 2000-2005. Back then, the case that creativity was jobs was a hard one to make in a town that had little imagination. I argued for a future, but made sure it was firmly rooted in the town’s past – a town with a creative leyline running from Oscar Wilde to Mick Farren through to Jamie Hewlett and Travis Elborough and Deborah Coughlin. But some of the ideas I pushed became embedded in the Worthing Evolution masterplan; East Beach Studios, for example, is a direct result of making that case to the council and local business groups. I didn’t get the Tate Worthing I wanted, though; and Turner Contemporary shows what Worthing didn’t get. 

But what could Margate get, if GEEK makes the case well enough? Nesta and Ukie has estimated that the UK games industry could be contributing £1.72bn to the country’s economy – more than the UK’s steel industry. 95% of games companies are classified as small or micro businesses. But in that Nesta & Ukie study,  the 1902 video games companies they looked at employ approximately 9200 creative staff and indirectly support more than 16,800 jobs. 95% of UK games businesses export at least some of their games and services to overseas markets.

The education sector is starting to see the games industry as an important sector for future jobs, too. 56 universities are running over 140 video games development courses throughout the UK.

When the Games Developer Conference polled 400-plus games professionals across Europe it found that the UK emerged top as the best source of games in the last ten years – and as the most likely source of the best games five years from now.

Games sales outstrip video in the UK, and more than twice as much is spent on games as on music. And the people playing the games this huge UK industry makes might not be who you expect, either. The UK gamer audience has now hit 33.5 million – that’s 69% of the population. Because of the rise in puzzle and trivia game apps, there are now more women playing video games in the UK than men. Seven out of ten Britons have played some form of video game in the last 6 months and more people 45+ are playing than under 20s

“In an area like East Kent where physical connectivity can be a problem for companies, digital connectivity could be the way to build solid and sustainable jobs,” says GEEK’s director Kate Kneale, “so while the economic development people always look to attract a big employer, we’re saying – why not attract lots of small ones instead?”

P1160537.JPGGEEK was started by the team from Kneale’s design company HKD in 2012. With an interest in art and science, HKD projects are designed to help people meet, make new work, and play together. HKD have recently designed new galleries for Science Centre Singapore, and are currently involved in the design of the Hong Kong Space Museum. In the UK, they are working at Delapré Abbey, Northampton and Gods House Tower, Southampton.

GEEK celebrates the colourful culture around computer games and gaming, but also lets people meet to talk about the economic importance of the creative industries in East Kent. 

GEEK comes to Dreamland, Margate in February half term, from 17th-19th February. Alongside hundreds of games, it includes a programme of talks and workshops which touch on employment in the gaming industry.

 

geek-2017-heroimage

Margate’s Playful History

P1220179.JPGMargate, in the quest to show the latest visitors that it’s bottled the zeitgeist, often forgets that there’s nothing new under the sun. Since a failing fishing village reinvented itself, Margate’s always been somewhere that people come to play. And there’s a straight line from the earliest Pleasure Gardens of the 18th Century to the very 21st Century GEEK festival, which happens during the half term holiday every February.

The old Pleasure Gardens like Dent De Lion, The Wilderness and Ranelagh Gardens were egalitarian public places, where visitors from every class would dress in their finest to promenade, play bowls, perhaps impress with their archery skills, listen to music, and – later on – enjoy the first amusement rides.

So there’s a certain symmetry in GEEK’s move this year to the site Victorian circus superstar Lord Sanger chose for his own Pleasure Gardens. The modern Dreamland sits on almost the exact footprint of the grounds behind Lord Sanger’s Hall By The Sea, where visitors could see the circus owner’s menagerie, experience early rides, and wander through the (faked) ruins of Margate Abbey.

GEEK – or to give it its full title, Games Expo East Kent – has been running since 2012, and this will be its first year on the Dreamland site. Like the old Pleasure Gardens, GEEK’s egalitarian; and like the Pleasure Gardens, it will always wow visitors with the latest technology. For a few days, Dreamland will be brought alive by retro games, digital art, tournaments and boardgames. There’s space dedicated to cosplay, Warhammer, 2000AD, Raspberry Pi antics and Minecraft. There will be a special celebration of the anniversary of Mario Kart.

But while the Pleasure Gardens quickly fell out of fashion, the family-friendly GEEK festival is no passing fancy. It’s firmly rooted in the Isle of Thanet’s creative economy, and in showcasing the town’s arts, digital and creative work, suggests creative careers for the younger gamers who visit.

Margate’s a playful place, for sure, but there’s some serious thinking and a thriving economy underneath all the fun.

GEEK’s Storyteller in Residence

geek-2017-heroimage
The GEEK festival in Margate is an interesting thing. On one hand, it’s a gaming festival, with everything from retro arcades and Minecraft to edgy boardgames and a side order of Cosplay, comics and toys. Wrapped around that is a layer of art, including new commissions, digital art, and game-making.
 
But underneath all of that is the proposition that digital, gaming and the wider creative sector are vital to the economy of East Kent, and that their potential is being ignored in things like regeneration strategies. Those documents always look at attracting big employers, where a more resilient digital economy is built of lots of small, agile companies who co-exist, share services and overlap.
GEEK was created by the team at HKD in Margate, a research-led design studio who work in science centres and museums to design world-class exhibits. Alongside their own practice, they run Marine Studios (where I have a studio). 
 
A couple of years ago, I produced a newspaper for the festival, the GEEK Gazette – which included the programme, and some fun stuff, but also looked at the future of work, emerging technology, and the way creativity and gaming contribute to the area. Writers included the then-minister Ed Vaizey, Tuttle founder Lloyd Davis, and the Centre for Creative Collaboration’s Brian Condon.
 
Well – GEEK is back this year, and moves to a new venue, Dreamland. And I’ll be back there too, with a new role as Storyteller in Residence. I won’t be telling stories, but collecting them, to help tell the story of why GEEK, and all the things it’s about, are really important.
 

Pop Up People

Pop Up People looked at the problem of empty shops in town centres differently. First, it saw them as an opportunity. But secondly, and most importantly, it identified that the solution was to be found in people, not in planning, strategy or policy.

As a counter to the Portas report into town centres, which praised big retail and said the days of independent shops were over, Pop Up People recognised that individuals across the country were making a difference, identified he skills they were bringing to play, and demonstrated how they could easily be supported to deliver real and lasting change.

To produce the report, I spent a period touring the UK, running a range of action research events with people already engaged in activating high streets, city centres and other spaces. The report was praised by Arts Council England, read by government ministers, and has bee used as a tool for advocacy across the UK. It was supported by a short film, and a wiki to document the research and collate useful resources. Pop Up People is still relevant and useful today – download it and read it here..

Margate Festival

14294431549_4ca218dc3c_o (1)Back in 2014, I spent some time with Tom Swift looking at the Margate Festival which Turner Contemporary had just launched – which that year, took colour as its theme.

The report we prepared was light in tone, but looked at serious things; how far had people travelled for Turner Contemporary’s festival, how did they move across the town when they got here, and where did they spend their money.

It included statistical analysis, based on talking to 250 people, alongside anecdotal evidence.

“This document attempts to join dots where perhaps dots shouldn’t be
joined, and to make assumptions where perhaps assumptions shouldn’t be
made. But that’s the role of the artist; to see a bigger picture made up from
small brushstrokes.”

You can download and read the observatory-paper-no-1-1 here.

My broken European heart

nb This is written today, amidst the greatest uncertainty we’ve ever experienced in my lifetime, in the tattered remains of a postwar political consensus. I’m hurting. Be kind. 

I am European. I was born in 1974, in a European country. I love being European, and I love being British. There’s no contradiction there; I am also proud of being from Sussex too, with all the traditions that brings. And will always love my hometown, Worthing, which has its own identity, quirks and ways within the wider county. Think of it like Russian dolls, a Worthing boy, my Sussex identity nestled inside my Britishness, inside a European shell.

6972228767_df88d58d78_o

In the last few years, I have been very lucky and, for the first time in my life and thanks to work, I have been able to travel. We had a couple of childhood holidays – Austria with PGL, Paris – but I have never had the opportunity to travel. My 20 year old daughter travels casually, spending a few months abroad with no concerns, while I pack and repack for a few days in Ireland.

Amsterdam North

Work took me there this month, to talk at the inspiring All-Ireland Performing Arts Conference (a coming-together of older, separate Ireland and Northern Ireland events). Unilever took me to Italy a few years ago. And my work with empty shops took me to the Netherlands a few times. I took those opportunities nervously, as I’d never travelled; my daughter is at university (achieving something neither of her parents did) and is already embracing travel. She is casual about it, while I’m still excited to get a window seat. I’m still dazzled by cloudscapes and overwhelmed by the distant curve of the horizon, while for her the horizon is where she going. Her world is bigger, her opportunities broader.

Or rather – they were.

This weekend, her chances have been reduced. She will have less options. My two younger children will also have to live in reduced circumstances, but at least they will never have seen how wide the horizons were to start with.

And me? Well, I’m genuinely heartbroken. The cry from Leave campaigners was ‘I want my country back’. That’s exactly how I feel.

Brighton

Everything I’ve been taught, the values and beliefs I’ve been given since childhood, have been ripped away.

I was taught (in an ordinary school on an ordinary council estate, in an ordinary postwar comprehensive)  that we’d come through war, and seen that co-operation was better. We’d fought for peace. We’d battled for kindness, for care. We’d welcome immigrants, pre and post war –  the Basque children, the young people who arrived on Kindertransport. We’d wanted the people from the West Indies on the Windrush, people from Bangladesh and India, the Italian brick-makers in Bedford because all those people helped rebuild our country post-war. We’d seen off isolationism, told Enoch Powell he was wrong, kicked back against the rise of the National Front. We’d moved from Empire to Common Wealth in a reasonable way.

We’d give a share of our wages to bigger things, knowing we got the benefits – education, the Welfare State, decent homes, a sense of safety. The things we celebrated on the opening night of the Olympics in London, what feels like a very long time ago.

The country I’ve grown up in since 1974 has been essentially safe and secure, fundamentally fair, moving consistently towards something even better. Yes, there were still class inequalities, fights for gender equality, and some residual racism – but the direction was good, the momentum there. People have more now than they did before I was born, when our economy was broken.

 

P1100877

Nobody I have ever met believed that going backwards, that reducing fairness, that shrinking horizons was in any way good.

Except – they did. In their secret hearts, they hated all the things I’d been taught were good. Half the country voted for exactly that. They voted knowing the immediate impacts; a damaged economy, the break up of the United Kingdom, less opportunities for young people to work and travel, and the rise of racism on the streets. All these things were known, but labelled Project Fear.

But – it turns out, they were a legitimate fear; we got them all. And we won’t get the things the Leave campaign promised either. Within hours of winning the referendum, they have withdrawn promises of extra funding for the NHS, of reductions in immigration numbers, of closed borders and the end of free movement. And they have admitted they have no plan. None. The thing they claim they have wanted since 1973, they have not spent one single moment planning for.

We have everything that the Remain voters feared, and nothing that the Leave voters wanted. An election in which everyone lost.

London 2012

I’ve been called a traitor for my vote, told I should leave the country. Nigel Farage has said we Remain voters weren’t decent people.

For the first time in my life, I have no optimism left. The thing that has kept me going, the sense that we can make a difference, that we can do things, that we have agency and power and magic in our hands, is gone right now.

I can’t talk to people who voted Leave. They have broken my country and broken my heart. They have left me adrift, unsure of the very identity the country has wrapped around me since birth. I am scared and I am lonely.

The country is broken, and I am broken too.