I am on a journey. I mean, we are all on a journey, so let me rephrase that….I am on a journey and am very much doing the work and acknowledging what is coming from that. But maybe that’s for another time…

A lot of work I am doing is about my past and how that may be impacting my future, which, up until recently, I believed I knew exactly what I needed to address. But we are like onions…or like Shrek….we have layers.

Part of my work is unlocking the artistic side of me that, for whatever reason, has become blocked. However, I thought this was a recent block as I have struggled to write recently but actully, I now realise that it has been a deterioration over my entire lifetime.

One of the books I have been drawn to is The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. It’s a book that found its way to me because I needed to do that work on myself, and it would be rude to ignore it!

The book gives you different activities that they say will help you to rediscover the little Artist that lives inside all of us.

The book asks a lot of thought-provoking questions that I actually have really struggled with when I didn’t think I would.

One activity/question was to list three people who championed your artistic work as a child/young person. That could be writing stories. Poetry, painting, drawing…whatever. There was me, working through the different activities and such they spoke about, and this one….this floored me.

The question…. List 3 people who championed your art as a child or young person ….

I sat with my brand-new pad that I decided to use for my Artist’s Way project…and 5 minutes later, I was still sitting there, the pen now in my mouth like a cigarette and staring at the blank page as if I would find the answers on the paper magically if I looked hard enough. And my brain was rushing with hundreds of thoughts and feelings….all bad.

Write down three people who championed you as a child for your artistic work….

So, I initially wrote my mum. Of course. But then specific thoughts came rushing, and I don’t know about you, but when you’re doing that deep self-work, it can feel confusing what memories are real or have, they been distorted along the way.

I have memories of my mum supporting me being artistic, but actually…also not. I don’t remember my pictures being on the wall or the fridge around the house. Maybe they were, but I don’t remember that feeling. I also remember that any encouragement around artistic stuff stopped by age 10. I remember being told I could not sing. Not in an unkind way, maybe but my mum telling me that If I sing in front of people, they will take the mick out of me. She did not word it like that. But that was the message. My mum was a bad singer as I was. We are both awful. But looking back, I don’t remember her ever singing in front of anyone but me until I was much older . One time, I was painting the bathroom, windows open, music blaring, and singing my head off. My mum came in very angry and told me to stop. She said it was actually hurting her ears. I made her a mirror that she put up for a while, and then it was in my room.

I’m not here to slate my mum. Never that. I’m just rallying what my mind showed me.

Now remember something…my mum was very unwell most of my life. I would imagine she sometimes did not have the emotional capacity to think about putting my latest scribble on the fridge. Fuck me, we didn’t have a fridge at one point.

What she did do was let me have whatever arty stuff I wanted. She would take me to the shop at Christmas and let me choose as many different glitters as possible, all the different cards and tissue papers. She would leave me for hours to make angels and snowflakes. I would put all these angles I made all over the house hang my badly created snowflakes from the ceiling. She let me once glue cotton wool all over my ceiling to make snow. It took me days….looked awful … and the ceiling was never the same.

She made me a whole angel outfit when I was chosen to be the angel in the Christmas play and made my giant wings out of tin foil, and everyone was blown away.

There were times when my mum would regress and become a child. Once again…different blog. But she would become very childlike and when she was like that, she would like to color and do art stuff. I have memories of sitting on our sofa, freezing cold , with blankets, coloring in with her while watching cartoons, and both of us talking in our 7-year-old voices about whose butterfly was the most beautiful and asking to borrow the blue pen. Except I was seven and my mum was 38.

So, with pen in mouth, I wrote in my new book.

People who championed me:

1. Mum (when she could)
2.  …..

Ten minutes later I was now sitting on my bed debating if I should throw the book in the bin or chuck myself in the bin….because What the hell? I know the book said it would be hard, but maybe I was too…damaged. So, I dig deep. I sat and I waited for the answer. Who championed me …who encouraged my art…….and then it came to me. It was the strangest feeling. Like….getting into a warm bath on a very cold day knowing that your PJs are on the radiator…do you get what I mean? Like….I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. I wrote the name, but I had to leave number 3 blank. It will always be blank, I think. And that is sad.

The next stage was to write down 3 of my biggest critics of my artistic side as a child. Easy. I rattled them off with ease and added an extra two for luck. Sat back like…next

And then I was like ohhh….wow. That was too easy. The critics in my life were easy to find. This took me by surprise as I went from feeling smug that I had completed the second part with ease to then realizing why….

Then, the next part. Please find one of your champions and write them a letter telling them the impact they had on your life.

Well, my mum has died. I mean I could write her a letter but …no….

So, I went on a quest to find the number two on my list and all I had was this.

• Rob Bennett
•  Worked in my PRU called CAVE in Clapham (I was in that school from 1994-96)
•  Accent (up north?)
•  Taught Art and English….maybe just ART

That’s it. And the last time I ever saw him, I was 15.

So, I turned into a detective. After days of trawling, finally I found an address for a Rob Bennett in south London. However,…the address was years ago. I went on Facebook and searched the name and I saw one person who kind of fitted and sent a message asking if he used to be a teacher. The man replied no, asked me why, and wished me luck. I sent a few more messages to people with the same name…nope…not them.

So, I will write my letter here in the hope that it will find its way to him with the help of all you lovely people and a gentle nudge from the universe.

OK…lets do this

To Robert Bennet 

Former teacher and manager of CAVE (Community and voluntary education), Clapham SW4

Dear Rob

I honestly don’t know if you will remember me or if you’re the kind of teacher who does remember all the kids he has helped. But it does not matter if you do or don’t, because I remember you. I’m 43 now, and the last time I saw you, I was 15. The actual last time I may have seen you (If you were in that final meeting, I can’t remember) was when I was permanently excluded from the school. I was pregnant.

The first time I met you was in an ART class, and I remember you had an accent I liked. I think Birmingham, but maybe you had no accent, and that’s just what my memory created. What I do know is that you were funny and kind and everyone liked you. Even when they were telling you to fuck off. (Never me!)

You spoke about Art like it was the most important thing in the world. And you would spend time with each of us, showing us how to improve. You made me feel like Art was a real thing that I could do, and you would pick up people’s pictures and call the attention of the rest of the class to show them how well they did. Do you remember when Luke created that picture of Hellraiser? I would sit and look at it, and you would tell me I could draw like that if I just put in the time.

Once you got us to create these graffiti pictures. We drew brick walls and could add whatever writing we wanted. Some people made big ones on sheets and used actual spray paint. I did mine on a large piece of paper and spent hours drawing each brick. Then, I created my graffiti writing and stuck it on. I was so proud of the picture. The writing read.

“Becous I can”

You stood next to me when we were done, and you had your hand to your chin as you did when pausing before speaking. You were smiling, but you were not talking. Then a boy named Chris started laughing and said, “Kendra, you are so thick bruv, you can’t even spell”. And my face went red. And I was very hot. And I would have lashed out at him and him at me, and things got heated, and at the end, I was sent home early. I walked the short distance home, trying not to cry. I was so angry and frustrated and embarrassed. I did not go back to school for a few weeks. Fuck that.

I wandered back one Tuesday afternoon. Had been out all night and was starving and knew if I turned up at lunchtime, there would be something to eat. I went in and looking back now, I must have often looked in such a state, turning up to school, always when I had not been home all night. I have turned up drunk many times. Or off my head on lean. I was always let in. I remember that one girl often commented that I smelt bad, and we would row. But I bet I did smell awful at times.

But when I came back after the row with Chris, you made a beeline for me, asked how I was, and got me food. Asked about my mum, was she ok, I spun you the usual lies of “it’s all ok.” You said you wanted to speak about it the other day. I said I don’t care. You smiled a half smile and said you would like me to come in and do some 1:1 work with me about Art and other stuff. And so, for a short period, I attended school almost daily. Because I hoped that you would show me how to draw like Luke.

And we did draw a bit. But then you asked me about spelling. And I got rude and said shut up. And you said you bet you could teach me to spell any word I wanted, and did I trust you. I shrugged. You asked me what word I wanted to learn to spell alone.

I told you. But I said, don’t mug me off in front of the others about spelling. You said you wouldn’t.

And for the next few days, you sat with me for an hour a day and made me say over and over.

Bec

A

Use

I had to write it like that. And then you showed me how to put it together.

Then you said nothing for a week. And I disappeared on one of my “adventures.” I was gone a while, but I returned, as I always did. You saw me and, with a big smile, said, “Hey Kendra, how are you ?”. No other questions. Not where I had been, why a black eye. Nope, I would imagine that was left for others to ask. You took me to a room (Maybe it was your office) gave me juice and biscuits, and spoke.

“So….how do you spell it”.

I remember standing there, shaky as I had been through some stuff. I worried as I had not been home yet. Exhausted. Tearful.

And here you were, back on your game. Doing what you knew I needed you to do….teach me.

I swallowed my digestive and said……

Bec

A

Use

…..

B

E

C

A

U

S

E

“Because”

And you shouted “YES” way to loud and punched the air and bear-hugged me like I had just won a race or won a prize.

You were rubbing my head and saying, “Go on girl” or whatever you used to say.

You never cared how I looked or what time I turned up. I’m sure you were doing all the safeguarding in the background because so many questions were asked. But never directly by you. And I appreciate that.

You showed me how to make pottery, that you said was outstanding, but I still have it in my loft, and its fucking awful so…you…know…thank you for the nice lies lol.

You helped me to create a giant heart mirror for my mum.

You gave me your time.

And there was this garden party once for the school and lots of posh people came, most likely trustees. A few of the ladies heard me speak, called me over, and said I sounded like someone from EastEnders. That made my face go red. As a child, I didn’t quite get what the joke was. But I knew they were laughing at me not with me. They were getting me to say all these phrases and then really laughing . I felt stupid and was on my own and didn’t know what to do . And then you came over and said something about at least she sounds authentic, and you took me away and we sat and done stone, or leaf rubbings and stayed with me while the part went on , until I went home.

I remember.

I remember that you took my turn when it was the day, we had to read out loud, and that you never told me to stop asking questions and that you would call my mum and tell her I was good, and the days you did that I would go home and she would be cooking and would say “Rob called, told me how well you did today, well done”.

I remember.

You told me about Schindler’s list. You told me to watch the film, and you told me why it was important, and you told me why it was important why that little girl was the only one in red. And it made me feel clever that I knew history. I made my mum watch it with me, and she cried. And I just banged on about why the girl was in red.

I didn’t for a long time. But I do now. I remember

So, thank you Rob, for being the champion to the little artist in me. And showing me that I was not stupid. I just needed time.

Kendra/Blondy

P.S- I may have stolen your fags one time. I took them from your room, but they could have been anyone’s. Either way, I always felt bad. I’m sorry. If they were not yours, then…not as sorry ….

So if you read this, please share. You never know it may make its way to Rob. The universe has a funny way of getting things done.

Now I can move on to the next part of my book!