A
Fox in the Henhouse
By
Dominic Horton
Being
a writer I like to be around creative types so it was a treat on
Thursday to be in the company of three such persons; the artists
Louise Blakeway, Fran Wilde and Elena Thomas. I was attending an
exhibition of Elena Thomas's work at Artspace in Dudley
(http://www.artspacedudley.com/)
entitled Nine Women and
also viewing the work of Louise Blakeway at the same venue. The Nine
Women exhibition includes
intricately embroidered women's brassieres that are hung from the
ceiling on suspenders – no, not that type of suspenders, there was
not a stocking in sight. Stockings and suspenders and
bras would be too much for any Benny
Hill loving man to bare. Staying with the spirit of Benny Hill, the
bra-themed exhibition was fascinating so I bet it has received a lot
of praise and favourable comments but it is bound to also have some
knockers.
 |
| A fox in the henhouse, by request of Toby In-Tents. |
Elena's
drawings of the bras are also on display at the exhibition. The
drawings are on tracing paper and you can see that there is another
drawing of the bra underneath but it is obscured by the tracing paper
drawing on top – so in many ways it is like a bra on a woman as I
was left thinking, “I wonder what it looks like underneath?”
The
embroidered bras and drawings are accompanied by nine songs that the
multi-talented Elena has written and is in the process of recording
(she has recorded three to date). On one of the songs Helena sings a
capella and it struck me that when you hear unaccompanied singing you
tend to listen more closely to the song and the lyrics. You don't
always need to shout to be heard, sometimes the quiet, subtle
approach works best. I wish some drinkers in pubs would learn this
lesson as some of them make a terrible din.
We
are lucky in the Flagon & Gorses as other than a few notable
exceptions we don't tend to get many shouters in the pub. But that is
certainly not the case in the pub down the road from me and in the
summer when customers are in the beer garden you can hear their
boisterous racket in my Codger Mansions dwelling. It might be the
case that all the drinkers in the pub used to work in the textile
industry, operating noisy machines and are now hard of hearing and
need to shout to each other to be heard. Either that or they are
young men and women who are p*ssed and have a lack of consideration
for neighbouring households as a consequence.
Elena
showed us a lot of consideration at the exhibition and not only did
she take the time to chat to me about her work but she also offered
me tea and delicious cake, which she had made herself, displaying
another string to her creative bow. I only have one string to my
creative bow so if that snaps I am doomed and it is under great
strain as it is.
 |
One of the intricately embroidered bras from Elena
Thomas's Nine Women exhibition.
|
After
the Nine Women exhibition I viewed paintings and
work by the artist Louise Blakeway in another room in the Artspace
building. Lou is a friend of mine and she was also present so again
I was able to listen to the artist talk about her work. Three small
charcoal portraits were exhibited of artists who have influenced
Louise, including Beryl Bainbridge. Lou explained that she burnt
some old court papers from an unpleasant case she was involved in and
used the ashes to draw the portraits, which I thought was a very
creative and intelligent way of turning a negative into a positive.
I
love Louise's work and I fleetingly thought about buying a piece,
which would sit rather nicely in my Codger Mansions living room and
would complete my recent decorations but I couldn't justify the
expenditure not being in paid employment at the moment. If I abstain
and steer clear of the Flagon & Gorses for a month I could use
the monies to buy a painting that I have my eye on but there is more
chance of the Pirate voting UKIP than that happening.
The Nine
Women exhibition reminded me that I accidentally took
women's studies as part of my degree at Worcester University
twenty odd years ago when my brain could cope with learning new
things. I originally signed up to do a course module on social
psychology but at the first lecture I was told that due to an
administration error by the university the course was over subscribed
and I would have to leave and find another course. There were only
two courses with spaces available within my sphere of social studies,
one that I had no interest in (I forget what it was) and women's
studies, so I subscribed to the latter.
 |
| Benny Hill in typical pose. |
I
turned up early to the first women's studies lecture and settled down
at a desk awaiting my fellow students. After a few minutes the
lecturer breezed in with a number of students behind her and seeing
me she said, “I think that you are in the wrong classroom, this is
women's studies.” I of course explained that on the contrary, I
was in exactly the right room as I had singed up to the
course. By now the class was filling up and all of the students were
women, and a general discussion and rumpus followed and many of the
students looked aghast at the thought of me joining them. It was
explained to me that the situation was unprecedented as a man had
never taken up women's studies before and a few of the more outspoken
students were not shy in telling me that this was a space for women
only and that I should leave.
As
things started to get heated the lecturer politely asked me to leave
the room in order that a debate could be held on the matter as there
were differing opinions as to whether I should be allowed to take the
course. Battle lines seemed to be drawn between the radical
feminists, who wanted me out off the course, and the liberal
feminists, who felt that I should be allowed to stay. I obligingly
took myself off to the cafeteria for a cuppa while the women in the
group had their ideological bun fight.
After
half an hour or so I was called back to the battlefield and I was
told to my delight that a ballot had been held and by majority the
women students had voted that I should stay on the course. It was
clear though that there were a number of very disgruntled students
and looking at the faces around the room I hazarded that the vote
must have been very close. Personally I would have voted for kicking
me off the course, not because I am a man but because at the time I
used to dress very shabbily. The lecturer should have caveated the
ballot's outcome by telling me, “you can stay on the course but
as a minimum you will need to have a shave, comb your hair and
introduce your clothes to a washing machine. And a collar wouldn't
go amiss.”
 |
| My dear son Kenteke at the Hope Not Hate Balloon release. |
Once
I had infiltrated the women's studies course I was like a fox in the
henhouse and when we were discussing things in class I knew exactly
what to say to agitate the other students for sport and to get their
blood boiling, especially the radical feminists and when they were
contending what I said and their anger was rising to a peak I would
always say, “I am only playing Devil's advocate.”
Being
from Halesowen I thought that I might feel like an imposter on
Saturday when together with my dear son Kenteke I attended an event
arranged by the organisation Hope not Hate
(http://www.hopenothate.org.uk/)
at St John's Parish Hall in Dudley to celebrate multiculturalism in
the town. But not a bit of it, I was made to feel completely at home
by the lovely people from Hope not Hate and by members of the Dudley
Borough Interfaith Network, who I chatted to at length. The event was
organised to help foster community integration ahead of a planned
rally by the English Defence League in Dudley next weekend. The event
was an unmitigated success and people from all ethnicities, beliefs
and backgrounds intermingled and enjoyed the free food, music and
activities on offer, such as helping to paint a mural of
Dudley with my artist friend Maren. There was a wonderfully warm and
happy atmosphere in the church hall and a lot of smiling faces.
The
highlight of the event was a mass balloon release on the car park of
the hall. You had to write a message of hope on a piece of card that
was attached to the balloon and everyone was asked to release their
balloons in unison once the signal was given. It was a joyous sight
seeing hundreds of balloons making their way to the skies with their
messages of hope but there was a strong wind that carried my balloon
into a nearby tree, where it got lodged, so for me it was less a
question of hope and more a case of hopeless.
©
Dominic Horton, February 2015.
Lowlife
is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
Email:
lordhofr@gmail.com
No comments:
Post a Comment