I just spent the whole day at the Harvard Graduate School of Design at a symposium—Art in the Life of the City: London Stories. Several curators came from London to share stories of ephemeral art in the city—art that is not intended to be permanent and that often engages the viewer as participant. Many of the talks were densely intellectual—so much information that it was difficult to keep up. It’s clear that England and Europe are far ahead of us here in the United States in terms of this sort of engaged public art. Forty per cent of artists in England no longer think of art as object making. For them it is experience making.

I will write more about this but tonight, after this amazingly inspirational day, I’d like to tell the story of Antony Gormley’s Waste Man who you see here. Gormley went to the depressed English seaside resort of Margate to create an art piece that told the story of the exodus in the Bible. It is the story of how we leave the old behind and he asked the people of Margate, many of whom are poor, to give to this project by finding some object in their homes that they’d be willing to let go of. Maybe something that, when they let go of it, they could also let go of the pain associated with it. He obtained a space in an old abandoned amusement park and created the skeleton of a man with steel beams, eighty feet high with one arm raised like the Statue of Liberty. With the use of cranes they attached the detritus of this community of people to the frame to create the statue of a man made from junk. There was a piano, desks, chairs and who knows what.

One young woman clutched a small paper shopping bag. There were tears in her eyes. ‘I can’t tell you what it is,’ she said, ‘but I must let it go. It is time to let it go.’ She went up in the crane and deposited her package in the very heart of the man.

When he was complete, the whole town of Margate gathered around one night and they set him on fire. He burned all night until there was nothing but rubble left. Everyone huddled around and watched.

‘No one ever comes to Margate,’ said one spectator. ‘This is something special.’

I confess I’ve not thought much of art in these heart-based, political, public, ephemeral, huge-scale terms but now that I’ve experienced Waste Man and other similar works I feel both humbled and changed. There is work to do on this planet and artists can not just bring awareness to social problems they can actually change people. If you can rent the film, please do. The people of Margate have let go of something—an old way of viewing themselves. One burning night and working on this man together changed them. No one will forget this experience.I am not such an artist but I will consider now how I might be more engaged with the world in whatever it is I now do.

Because I designed the poster for this event I was invited to dinner in Harvard Square with the presenters. There was the chief curator of the Tate Modern, my favorite museum, the head of The Royal Society of the Arts, the director of the Serpentine Gallery in London, the producer of The Sultan’s Elephant and more. And they were all women, all a little younger than I am, but not by much. They are immensely accomplished women and I have to bow down to them for the courage and determination they have but I declined dinner. I knew I did not have anything to offer them, not in a group setting.

So I walked from the GSD through Harvard Yard to the bus. There were cops everywhere and a bandstand set up in the yard. It was a beautiful sunny day, (the first day of summer—spring is already over!) and I had to walk a little out of my way because the cops were closing down the yard for this event. I asked a student what was going on but he didn’t know. I stopped in at The Coop, the Harvard-owned bookstore and spent a pleasant half hour browsing around. When I exited, by the back door, I saw three men dressed identically in blue blazers with little buttons in their lapels. A mild curiosity but I paid no attention—I was much too full of inspiration from the day. I passed a man on my way out the door, turned left and was told by a rather burly dude that I must go to the right. I could see a couple of black limos down by Mt. Auburn Street on the left. ‘Why’s that?’ I said. ‘The prime Minister of Britain is visiting,’ he said. ‘You’re joking!’ I really couldn’t believe this just having spent the whole day with the culture honchos of Britain and having just declined dinner with them. The man laughed. ‘You just walked right by him!’ Funny. Not only could I have had dinner with these incredible women but I might have met the Prime Minister or at least said hi, if I’d had my eyes open. Well, there you go. Time to open the eyes!
Anyway, I hopped on the Number 71 bus and came back to home sweet home. But something changed for me today. At the symposium we all caught a glimpse of possibilities and who knows where any of us will go from here. This is not about ambition but inspiration and another door opened. So I say thank you to these incredibly intelligent and brave women who have really devoted their lives to art as curators and producers. Magic has happened.

Isn’t it beautiful? The photo is by Sarah Laslett for Royal de Luxe, the French theater company that created The Sultan’s Elephant, a performance piece in which this gigantic mechanical elephant walked through the city streets of London in 2006. It was produced by Artichoke, a theater production company and funded by the city of London. To think that ordinary Londoners had no idea what was happening when this elephant appeared is extraordinary and thrilling. On Thursday and Friday, this week, the Harvard Graduate School of Design, sponsored by the Loeb Fellowship, will hold a two day exploration—Art in the Life of the City: London Stories.

The photo is one side of the program I designed and, yes, even after the computer hassles of yesterday it is now printed and looks great! I popped over to the printer in Harvard Square this morning to see it. It’s tabloid sized and I now have the photo on the wall of my studio. It’s great to think how art can be a collaborative venture that gives joy in mysterious ways. What a preposterous idea to have a gigantic elephant appear from the wreck of a wooden ’space ship’ that has crashed into one of London’s main streets! It’s even more preposterous to think that no-one, not even the media had any idea what was happening. But all of London got caught up in it. It’s magic that no one in London will ever forget. How fine is it to carry a little magic with us as we move through our lives?

The computer problems of yesterday are now forgotten. Funny how they can trip the stress switch. The printer, Derek, was very kind today to say he knew just what I was talking about. Perseverance pays, as they say. Things can always come right.

I’m so looking forward to the event and will report. I’m expecting to be massively inspired as if I’ve seen an elephant walking down the street. Stay tuned!

A long, long, long day. Who knew it would be like this? You never know. Today I got beat up by a computer program, wrestled to the ground and kicked. They can be like that. I would have punched back but I didn’t know how! Ack. It was truly frustrating in the way only computer things can be. (They are smarter than us, I believe.) I used new design software to design the program for the big event at Harvard this week about art in the city which I’m so excited about. The printer called this morning to say he needed me to add 1/8 of an inch all around. No problem. In any other program I know it is no problem but not this one. And then when I found the way after a few stabs everything was fine EXCEPT for four or five lines of type which were just screwed up. And there was no-one to say why because computers don’t actually speak and techie message boards are a real nightmare if you actually want to hear your issue addressed and not 5 million other people’s issues.

Can I tell you how many things I tried to fix this problem? No, I won’t do that to you. I’m no good at technical things, it’s true. I have BASIC knowledge only and I started to think that BASIC knowledge just doesn’t get us anywhere. At one point I felt like crying but then I thought—what’s the point? Who’s going to care even? What good would it do, tears on the keyboard? It might even ruin it and then there goes a couple of hundred dollars! So I sucked them in.
And what would I cry about? A computer glitch. There are people in the world with real problems and I’m going to cry over the fact that I have tried to do something 437 times and in 362 different ways and it still didn’t work! We can’t have that. Those were my thoughts but I was lucky they were finding head space because the old head began to feel like it was squeezed in a vice. I even thought that this day might AGE me or give me high blood pressure or something. Finally, finally I found most of the way forward. I must leave the last bit to the printer and give him my solemn promise that I will never, ever use this program again.

Now I sit with a glass of the red and reviving and I know why the grape exists. It is for moments like this at the end of a long, long day. At noon I had lunch with a new friend and babbled incoherently about software. Me! I’d lost my senses and will have to make profuse apologies. I even started to think, perish the thought, that I’m no good at ANYTHING. A computer program can do that to a girl like me.

But now, the house is quiet. Dear A was fortunate to have already planned a dinner with a friend tonight so I am here and the pressure in my head begins to lessen. I am glad for Dear A. It would have been a dull evening to hear all about this over the dinner table and I’m sorry to say that he would have done so. But no, now I take another sip and tell you. I’m sorry but thanks for listening. Bottoms up!

Every week in our art class we sit around a table for a chat before we start working. Usually we talk about what we’re going to be working with that week and today we worked on abstraction. But before we began one of our group said she sometimes wondered why she was doing art. She has a very good job and doesn’t sell her art, at least not at the moment. So, is it worth the time and effort? We all agreed that we have a good time on Saturday mornings but is that all that’s happening and is it enough?

In my last post I was (curiously) asking much the same question. If we are not making a splash is it worth swimming? We went around the table and everyone spoke about what doing art is about for them. One of our artists said that she does art for mental health. It’s a lot like meditation. It takes us to the place of peace so that’s a good thing right there.

This same person said that the creativity we consciously nurture in making art becomes much more present in other aspects of her life. When I think about creativity I think about abandoning preconceptions, of diving into the unknown, of learning to trust, of failing and succeeding, of playing and having the courage to go where we haven’t gone before. It does alter our lives when we internalize these qualities.

All very cool. Still, I think of a memoir I read, Final Edition, by the British writer E. F. Benson who wrote the wonderful Mapp and Lucia stories. In the book he told of a friend who had decamped to the island of Capri and for twenty-five years labored on the definitive poetic translation of a selection of ancient Greek epigrams. “He read me some of them, his voice, charged with emotion, trumpeting out the emotion of the triumphant lover or falling to a whisper as it mourned for the untimely death of a beloved youth.” And then, “my heart sank at his elation.” The result was wooden. “Happily the gods in their mercy had withheld from him the perception of his own incompetence.” The man died without publishing his long labors. They were left to E. F. Benson in the will in the hope that Benson, an established writer, might take on the task of getting it published and promoted. But he could not.

I really love that story. I love the man’s devotion. He got to where he got to and enjoyed some of the fruits of a romantic life on Capri. A consolation.

In the same book, E. F. Benson wrestled with the question himself. His first novel, Dodo, a book no one ever reads now, launched his career and made him famous and rich. Curious no one reads it now, isn’t it? Then he wrote several more books and they were soundly trounced in the press. He thought his career might be over and went into a period of deep questioning. It was writing he loved and he couldn’t turn away from it. He decided to carry on and to ignore the public, to write only what he cared about. From that came Mapp and Lucia. Those stories are not widely read now but they were for a good while, are brilliant fun and may come back again, who knows.

Who knows the permutations between these two realities? But, to me, it all looks rather fabulous, one story really no better than the other. Each person was on his own journey and neither gave up. So moving, really. Writing took one man to Capri, the other to fame and fortune. You can’t lose.

I worked this weekend on the program for the Harvard Design School event next week—Art in the Life of the City: London Stories. It’s going to be such a great event with speakers and films informing us of wild public art projects like The Sultan’s Elephant, the Crack in the Tate Modern floor and Waste Man—a forty foot sculptural man made of discarded furniture that was later burned. These are great dramatic art pieces—experiences so vivid that they change our relationship with the world. Just to know the joy of seeing The Sultan’s Elephant stroll down a London street, to stand watching with thousands of other people, n one knowing where it came from or what it was about—just magic.

So I was designing the program. On one side is an enormous photo of The Sultan’s Elephant and on the other the program, several other images and the list of speakers with their bios. Many of the speakers are women—that’s good news, and many of these women have amazing jobs—there’s the chief curator of the Tate Modern, the producer of The Sultan’s Elephant, the director of the Royal Society of Art, a research fellow and sculptor at an art college. These women are on boards of Everything, are consultants of Almost Everything. And they’re doing incredible things—trying to make urban space more hospitable and working to make cities greener. Their accomplishments were so lengthy that I almost ran out of space for them on the program.

Reading their bios I couldn’t help reflect on my own. I couldn’t help reflect how much more I’d like to do with my life to effect positive change in the world, in what new ways I’d like to engage with the world. It made me think about my own path and theirs. It’s not that I ever aspired to be a curator or a producer—those are different skills than what I have, more in the thinking domain than the feeling one which is mine. I’m better suited as an artist, as a writer, but still I’ve not achieved what these women have, not even by half. This is not to diminish what I have achieved—I’m just thinking this through here.

I started my career at The National Film Board of Canada and I was just twenty-four when I was asked if I would accept a job as a producer. The difference between me and these highly accomplished women is that I said thank you so much but I think not. I see myself as a writer, I said, as a creator rather than a producer. I was absolutely clear about this. A bit hot-headed but clear! I’ve wondered occasionally if I didn’t made a mistake. My philosophy now is to say yes to yes. But, then, I thought I might lose what felt so urgent and important—the chance to see where art would take me.

I was very ambitious as a young woman—there were so many things I wanted to do. But, at the same time, I was my parents’ daughter—I loved fun. I loved people and never worked late as some of my co-workers did who went on to have distinguished careers in film. No, I was out on the town. I didn’t get home until midnight half the time and when I got to work in the morning (always on time by the way) I couldn’t wait to compare notes with other, usually older, co-workers who’d given dinner parties the night before or been to the theater. I’d usually been in a club listening to the blues or out to dinner at a restaurant with a friend or at the movies.

Then, one day, I won’t tell the whole story now, I quit that great job to go freelance. I saw I was not a animation filmmaker after all. I hadn’t the interest in the long labor it took to bring a film to completion. I loved the writing and the design—that was enough for me. I had no real plan just an incredibly clear vision—I must jump ship and move on. Not long after I married a blues musician, one of Muddy Waters’ band members, and moved to Boston. So, there you go—the chance at another kind of life was done then, for sure. For sure!

When I was reading the biographies of those women I was getting a twinge of something like envy. How fun would it be to work on The Sultan’s Elephant—to create that kind of magic! But my friend Sally, who is working to bring these people over here from London, said that she called over to London one evening at 8 pm their time and they were still in the office. Let’s put it this way—at 8 pm I’m usually at the dinner table with a glass of the red having a chat with Dear A. Last night both kids stopped in, though not at the same time, so I was at the table until 9 pm then we watched the last episode of the new Sense and Sensibility. Today I’m back to the revision on my book which nears completion. And tomorrow I drive through beautiful Vermont to Montreal to visit with my dear mother for a few days. Then, when I come back, I will meet with my wondrous drawing class—we’ll explore abstraction which one of our members requested and will be a great exploration.

I have a very, very sweet and amazing life though not a public one. I no longer worry about money because I know how to make it. I love my family and my friends. And, this is so fine—wonderful new people are entering my life. They are not high-powered producers or curators. They are artists of various sorts, musicians and yoga teachers. They have time for coffee or a visit to a museum or dinner.

I’m so glad I wrote this all out. I’m so glad I see that all that time ago when I was surely a mixed-up young woman I still had some sense. I knew I didn’t need to explore that important job, that my journey was more of an inward one and a family one. Every day now I sit down and write. I do design work too and art but the thing I wanted to do when I was twenty-four is what I’m doing now and have done for the last few years when time finally opened up for me. There’s no guarantee that what I write will find its way into the world and I do it anyway. And I’m going to hold my head high because simply doing it, simply working very hard on something you truly feel called to do and doing it with love—that’s enough. The rest is not up to me.

It does make me think though that every once in a while we need to sit down and just appreciate ourselves. I can still get that twinge where I think it’s the big job that is most fabulous but it’s only for the person who wants it. Tonight, I’m going to sit at my kitchen table with my Dear A again—just chatting and counting my blessings.  The envy is just the sneaky old ego anyway, silly thing that it is.

And more rain. I snapped this picture of our wee city garden this afternoon. Pitiful, isn’t it? It can hardly be called a garden, poor thing, but come summer it doesn’t look too bad. It looks a little forlorn today but it won’t be for long. The birds have already started to visit the birdbath again. And those are snowdrops in the back, in full bloom.

I popped out the other day to rake up some dank leaves and wrenched my back which has necessitated a trip to our stalwart chiropractor. The great benefit of this, apart from having the back set right again, is that she’s advising me on my birthday trip. She’s made some fairly exotic excursions herself to China and Thailand and other faraway ports. It all sounds like a lot of work not to mention moulah. But we suddenly started talking about Cuba—it’s close and cheap and crumbling in such a fantastic way, the old regime giving way to who knows what. Other friends have gone and have found the food is good, the people kind despite so many years of hardship and the architecture swooningly baroque. I think it would be a fine thing to witness the place while Castro is still alive so am putting Cuba at the top of my list. In fact, I’ve ruled out India which was my first choice.  It’s too much of a trek and too daunting for an out of practice traveler. I need to dip my toes into warm waters before I dive into hot ones. I think Cuba will do nicely.

I feel rather spoiled even to think of such a trip but children are grown and now is the time for such things. I’d like to see things I haven’t seen before. The summer may be too hot for such an excursion. I don’t mind the heat but my traveling companion does not do well with it. He can get a sunburn standing in the shade under an umbrella. So, the birthday trip may be halfway through the birthday year.

I was to go to Montreal tomorrow but I’m putting it off for a few days now. It’s snowing there again, most unusual for April even for that snowy city. I think I’ll wait for the sunshine—I’m done with snow for this year. I’m really not complaining about rain—it’s the kind of lazy day that gets you dreaming. And that’s how plans get made!  Cha, cha, cha!

Yesterday I popped into Harvard Square, luckily just ten minutes from my house, to check on the proofs for the poster for the Harvard Design School symposium on April 17th and 18th. Here it is . It was such a fun thing to design because I care so much about the subject.

The image on the very bottom is from the great theater piece, The Sultan’s Elephant, which I described in the last post. The image on top of the huge crack is from Turbine Hall, the vast entrance to the Tate Modern. The symposium’s focus is London. The Sultan’s Elephant costs millions and was funded by the city. How progressive is that? It might seem there’s no tangible reward for such an investment but to have millions of people experience magic in a city all at once—how do we measure the reward? What does it do to people to remind them that magic is possible? That it happens all the time. It could be a very high purpose of art. It’s magic that a municipal government funded this.

It makes me think that we ought not to spend our time demonizing our governments but instead keep asking them to give us the world! To give us wondrous, positive things! One of the art pieces on the poster says— The World is Yours! Why do we forget?

Magic happens when people come together to create art and theater. So much energy is generated when we work together, much more than when we work alone.

The seminar is going to be one evening and one whole day with lots of speakers and films! I can’t wait! This is the kind of event that sparks visions and creates connections between people. Who knows what further magic might be created! Next week I’ll design the program to go with this. My art director, a visionary herself, has already given the go ahead to have it be on extra large paper. I’ve already figured out what I’ll do. I think it’s going to be really dramatic and fun! I’ll post it here when it’s done.

Art in the Life of the City—

Harvard Graduate School of Design, Piper Auditorium, 48 Quincy Street, Cambridge—April 17th and 18th.