writing

divenire

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Something exciting happened this morning.

If you have been following the unfolding of this week in the studio you will know that I have been making artistic works and poetry to the sound of my playing the piano piece ‘divenire’ by Ludvico Einaudi. In a way it was a little surprising that I was drawn to this particular piece. It’s not the one I know the best, nor have practised the most, and after a long absence I might have expected myself to play the piece that sounded most polished, especially once I’d decided to record it.

But somehow I wanted to play this particular piece.

Called ‘Divenire’, which means becoming – all kinds of becoming.

In a way this title has just been hovering as a kind of ‘nice motif’ even though usually I am very sensitive to the poetics of existence. But in a way too it was just obvious and normal and did not require too much attention. I was also somewhat perplexed about the whole matter because I actually could not play the whole piece; it had a middle bit that I had never mastered nor really tried to investigate, partly because it looked a bit intimidating with dotted notes and trills.

Then two days ago the neighbour whose piano I am borrowing was back in her apartment so I could not play it. Then yesterday I had an unexpected client call in the morning so again my playing rhythm was disturbed.

Yesterday was a long and tiring day but at the end of it I managed to coax myself back into the downstairs apartment to at least a bit play the piano. I have recognised it as a place on which I must insist. Something is there.

And, perhaps encouraged by the peace of the hush that descended (and about which I have just written), I found myself looking into this missing section. I was familiar with listening to the piece; and I loved it – perhaps it was not really so difficult, so I pondered.

I tried a bit, and was astonished… it turned out that it was as if somehow my fingers had had ears of their own and knew the tune without me being aware of it.

But both the fingers and myself stopped short at the dotted notes. Also this bit involved playing two regular notes on one hand at the same time as three regular notes on the others; again, intimidation.

I moved on to another piece, and then a friend texted and I gave up for the evening, but already something had shifted. I had found encouragement in my fingers and their apparent readiness for the work.

So this morning, early before my studio arrival, back I went to play.

And something marvellous is happening. My fingers and self have found their way to traverse, at least almost traverse, the middle section of the piece. They have not quite quite made it without falling yet but soon they will, perhaps tonight.

All week my poetics look-out has been on already alert, calling to me about this piece. But I did not want to get distracted, and I’m wary of the risk of false conclusions and too-small stories.

But today as I dwelled within the piece and my own sudden ability to make it from one side to the other (almost!) I felt a deep delight. Something is happening in me in this week and although I still don’t know what it is, it is deep and it is light.

breath, breathless

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stumble through the doorway
running, it seems I was
though now the old reality
seems distant, though yesterday

catch a breath
a gasp slow motion
exhalation, panic,
gulp another moment
sigh, disordered in
my being,
restless still

racing rat, fraught
thought, fought,
forlåt, what was that?
a tale, though how
you chased it

welcome
you are my guest
arrive, draw in deep,
what’s mine is yours
inhale hopefuless and wonder

my sighs pursue me,
echo the space alarmed
what happened to you?
life

a sweetness as a breeze
rose, orange blossom, peony,
fresh rain on gentled grass
far seas

I am arriving
I am born alive

Note: This is from the studio series inspired by paintings in my studio. The later paintings were written to the tune Divenire by Ludvico Einaudi. I can no longer remember if this one was. This is painted in Rose Madder, Permanent Rose, Cadmium Yellow, Cadmium Orange (all Windsor and Newton Professional) and Light Gold (Rembrandt). In my work these specific orange and yellow paints are indicative of the presence of a kind of fire, an element of the warrior nature. This first painting is the only one to use the fire colours. As if the arrival in the studio was a last breath of fire before the inhale and exhale of a more tender and touching reality.

loop

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Something is looping it seems to me. Here I am, after all, in this blog again, suddenly drawn to it, unexpectedly. What is there for me in my earlier self, I wonder. What is there for me in this representation of a me that you, by being there, sometimes liking, create? It’s mysterious.

I have a week in a space that completely transformed my life, over five months in the summer of 2020. Yes, that summer. Perhaps I will write more about it another time but I knew then and knew even more later, that a fundamental shift had taken place in my perception. Perception of the world, perception of self. I had joked that 2020 would be the year of seeing clearly. The joke had me.

So then here too is a loop.

And I find myself rereading the stories of my childhood.

I’m so much older that when I began this blog. I feel it. I can feel the resonances of greater substance, ontological weight, density, weariness, power. I have ‘made my bones’ but they are heavier to carry around, whereas surely there should be a more expansive freedom?

The true lightness of freedom, the true depth of well-formed substance. Another mystery.

So then there is this younger self. I recognise her and I feel triumphant. The self she was wondering was there is me. Her innocence touches me and I wonder if I can rediscover that. Surely that is a treasure? It is not-knowing and it is, I realise as I write this sentence, fear. I am at risk of an idealisation. It was terrible to be that vulnerable, continually not knowing if there was something there, risking everything with the possibility of nothing.

Something was there.

Perhaps though this is the rediscovery and the loop. That vulnerability recurs. The sight of an old tree in spring always touches me. All those frail sensitive quivering leaves on those full grown sturdy branches. It strikes me how rare it is to see those qualities in a person. Fragility is for the young, it seems, the full grown branches necessitate a kind of firmly-enforced self-protection.

I’m getting nearer some kind of reconnection and when I do I will know what it is. It will be a freedom and a lightness. It will be a reunion and an intensification, an expansion of substance.

And in the meantime, I will write this all to you, who carry the me I might become.

year of the poem?

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Well, it was to be the ‘year of the poem’, n’est-ce pas?  Poem philosophy, poem habits, poem diary, poem-editing course…  How has that worked out?  you might wonder.

Interesting…

What worked out is perhaps more than I could have possibly imagined.  An adventure beckoned.  I followed.  I grew.

Now, it is true that very little poetry was involved.  A tiny snippet.  But if you have ever looked closely, you will know that extraplorer is about discovering more beauty through writing.

So it turns out that this year may be more a ‘year of the poem’ than any poem-a-day year could ever be.  Something deeper than poetry happened in the adventure of my writers residency in a beautiful country.  I grew and grew and grew and found myself believing that I might be, possibly, maybe, no am, a real artist.

Over the summer, all the logic switches of my self-perception have been dismantled.  Here are a few as an example.  Test: Was I real artist?  Switches: Could I paint?  yes/no.  No.  Had anyone paid me? yes/no. No.  Was my writing recognised by anyone in particular?  yes/no. No.  Did anyone ever ask me to write them something (or paint, or draw, or dance)? yes/no.  No.

In the logic switches that governed my self-perception (I had not realised quite how many there were), I failed every test.

Over the summer, those logic switches were revealed as impostors.

Test: Was I a real artist?

Could I paint? yes/no.  Well, really, is this relevant?  I have something I want to communicate, I have a means to communicate it (writing).  I create canvases in people’s minds.  I am learning to do it better.  I don’t think it’s really all about the paint.

Had anyone paid me? yes/no.  Hmmm, well, of course being paid would be nice, very nice, but really, is this going to be the be all and end all of the decision, that someone has suddenly for who-knows-what reasons, decided to pay me?  I write all the time, I photograph, dance and play the piano.  I make beautiful transformations with people.  Are you really going to pin me down to the question has anyone paid?  People pay for drugs, cheap plastic tat in Poundland.  I don’t think I’m going to be aligning my identity with money anymore.

Was my writing recognised by anyone in particular?  yes/no.  Who do you mean by ‘in particular’?  This looks suspiciously where anyone who does love my writing gets put in the category ‘no-one in particular’ and some imaginary unknown people get put in the category ‘in particular’.  Who is this person who sets the rules for ‘in particular’?  What are they up to? What are their credentials?  Is it the same people who put on lacklustre and dispiriting exhibitions of arch postmodern commentary pseudo-paintings and we’re-all-doomed ‘installations’ purporting to represent the interactions between human beings and the environment?   Until this ‘in particular’-setting critic makes themselves better known, no more airtime for the ‘in particular’ category.

Did anyone ever ask me to write them something (etc)? yes/no.  Well, actually yes, a whole academic book.  Or at least they accepted it.  But that is beside the point, because who cares if I was asked.  Now it strikes me that this ‘anyone’ has an implicit lurking ‘in particular’.  It occurs me that ‘anyone’ is not just anyone, but someone.  In fact, yes, my nephews and nieces ask me to tell them stories all the time, my clients ask me to write them a training.  I’m asked to write talks and references.  Not what you had in mind?  Who cares!  I write all the time and I will write more!

So yes, I write poems, maybe I am a poet.  If I would like to be, I am; if I’m not ready, I’m not.  I write books, I am an author (this one is a fact already).  I take photos, I am becoming a photographer.  Who knows who I am, who I might be, who I might be becoming.  I am a mystery and I will do whatever I like.

The year of the poem has taken new directions.
As well it might.

 

 

retreat: over half way

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So, extraplorers…

A short(ish) post I am supposed to be:

  1. Working on poems to read tonight
  2. Writing up three poems to put in the class anthology tomorrow morning at 9:30am
  3. Working on poems to be read out at our ‘reading’ tomorrow night
  4. Getting more questions ready for tomorrow’s ‘drop in’ tutorials.

Somehow despite my poem enthusiasm I seem to have spent free time in very rascally ways like walking into the local village for a cream tea, going for a run in which I got lost and having my portrait taking.

I.e. not writing (but perhaps this is the most writerly thing I have done all week?)

Anyway, to summarise my actual writing progress so far:

  1. My poem about my granny (‘someone I don’t know well‘) turned out very nicely and was received with enthusiasm from the group and positive feedback from the real poets.  I still have some feedback to consider about this such as decide whether the order of stanzas could be better.
  2. I met one of my goals by writing and reading an intensely personal poem this morning.  I have wanted to be braver about this and I had several affirming comments both on bravery and quality.
  3. I had a quietly incredible tutorial this afternoon where some of my lurking questions (‘is this too self-absorbed?’, ‘does this even work as a poem?’) were met with wonderful responses about the quality, potential and validity of my writing.  I don’t think I have yet recognised the full weight of this.

Right!  Back to work.