Copyright Faith Butt-Lyons |
In 2001, we packed up the kids and went to England.
It was an adventure- a kind of geographical shake up for us,
to try out those long unused British passports which were ours as birthright,
and see what we could rustle up on the work and sightseeing front. We found ourselves after some weeks in Bristol; kids finally
in school, husband with a job in Bath and me, in a basement flat keening for
the light and freedom of New Zealand and to feel usefully employed.
I tried every avenue to find work in the arts; applying for
gallery hosting jobs (nil response to my CV)
volunteering ('sorry, our volunteer list is full, we can put you on the
waiting list') and finally refusing to budge from places until they gave me the time of day or a lead to something
I could do. Stroppy sorts, these Kiwis abroad.
My persistence paid off and I was given a titbit- The
Bristol City Council were employing people in the arts on a casual basis to
work in low decile primary schools. Taking music, painting, sculpture and dance
to kids who didn't get to go to all of these things as after school activities,
because there was no spare fat in the budget for families to provide these
luxuries.
I applied and got the work, and so, as my husband went off
to Jane Austin territory to work in an advertising agency surrounded by
beautiful things and cobbled mews, I drove into the deepest parts of Bristol,
to schools surrounded by barbed wire, keypad security on the gates. After the
Dunblane Massacre of '96, no one was taking any chances.
I worked at four different schools delivering a curriculum
of art which I devised, to groups of kids who were sometimes baffled as to why
they were there. Three of the schools dumped the strays and mischief makers on
me. I was a beleaguered babysitter with paint. I can't even remember what the
schools names were; they stood out only for their lack of interest, grey walls
and even greyer worn down teaching staff.
The fourth one was different; Cheddar Grove Primary School.
It was led by a principal who cared and had vision. The school felt different
walking in, the kids were happy, the parents smiled, the place was cheery, with
lots of art on the walls. It didn't feel like a prison.
The head teacher had selected the students with care; kids
who had a love of art. He also let me know that some of the students had experienced
very difficult lives to date for various reasons.
He didn't let me know who or what in particular- careful not to single anyone
out for some kind of misplaced sympathy oozing from well meant intention. But he did want me to be aware that some might not turn
up at some times for various reasons that had nothing to do with me or the
programme. What he wanted was for the kids abilities to blossom and for all of
us to have fun.
And we did. I looked forward to my lovely class of kids
every week; it was my reward for having to deal with the grim ones. One little girl stood out for me. She was slight and shy
with huge eyes. I struggled to hear what she had to say, and sometimes she
bolted from the room minutes after arriving 'I can't be here today Miss.' I
never asked why, and when she was there, she concentrated furiously and tried
all the techniques I showed the class with studied intent.
One day when I was talking about art I'd seen in different
places, a boy said 'Is that what you do Miss?' (they wouldn't call me Fifi, and
you have to read this with a West Country accent) 'you go around the world
like, and do art?' In that moment I realised how my life must look- glamorous
and exciting; and relatively speaking to the barbed wire, it was. I felt
ashamed of my moaning about the basement flat. It was in Clifton- the very
poshest part of Bristol. That it was mouldy and dark and nothing like home was
irrelevant.
Eventually the classes came to an end and said goodbye with
sadness to my Cheddar Grove art babies. I loved them all and they had taught me
that I could teach. Faith came up to me and gave me a card made up of some of
her best work and whispered 'Thank you Miss for showing us art.' A year later
we left Britain and I wondered for years how she was and what had happened to
that shy little girl.
One day a message popped up in Facebook asking me if I was
the same Fifi who taught art at Cheddar Grove. Faith! Not only is she all grown
up, fully blossomed into a strong, confident, gorgeous gal, but she is studying
art. 'I'm doing it, I'm at art school!'
Faith Butt-Lyons is finishing her BA Honours degree in
Drawing and Applied Art, UWE, Bristol. She's sent me her website with her work;
on the 'About' page, she explains her exploration through different
media of her sadness and the family tragedy that underpins it. The images are strong and
abstracted and, I found, very moving knowing the context.
3 comments:
Well that made me cry. Please supply a tissue advisory next time. And it wasn't just the Principal who gave Faith hope and exactly the right kind of guidance.
xx
A fantastic account. You made a difference and, who knows who else was given a pebble of hope by your presence. I'm told for every one that gets in touch, there's 15 who remember you with fondness and/or appreciation but don't get in touch. I like those numbers.
Bless your cotton socks, Fifi!
What a lovely real life story. Just lovely.
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