Home.

Uncategorized

Now that I have finished my course of antibiotics and am no longer infectious, I have been able to go home in the past two days. 

The difference between rest at home and rest in hospital is remarkable. I noticed as soon as I came out of my windowless room. 

Whilst in isolation, all I did was potter around, read, write, eat, wash, and sleep. So when I had visitors – I had eight altogether, the last one who came unmasked with a big hug, my first in eight days – I (mostly) had the energy to chat and laugh with them. Reaching a Zen-like state was that simple.

Post-discharge was another story. On Tuesday after lunch, I got dressed ready for my mother to take me home. Even before the official discharge call, doctors and nurses were getting ready for my departure – they had come in unmasked the previous night, and told me the antibiotics dose they were administering would be my last.

(Of course, just to be sure, they also ran a CT scan, and then one more dose of antibiotics, before I got dressed.)

After the blandness of the isolation room, the colours of the world beyond – the unit that brimmed with patients and visitors, and the warm, sunny corridor outside – leapt forward anew. I basked in every one of them.

‘Ward in Arles hospital’ by Vincent Van Gogh, 1889

Yet the moment I crossed that one corridor, my head began to spin. I got sweaty and couldn’t hold myself up anymore. I had to ask to be wheeled to my mother’s car instead.

I have since discovered how easily my energy saps whenever attending to my children’s needs (especially in the mornings), standing too long, or witnessing any sort of emotional stress. 

When that happens, I sit down immediately and just zone out. That has really helped me conserve energy for the rest of the day, although it hasn’t been easy. 

My children, being so young, still don’t understand why Mummy is taking so long to recover. I guess I will have to keep having the conversations. Both kids’ schools are willing to give extra emotional support, but the onus will always be on me, as their mother, to explain.

I have been very, very lucky. My official diagnosis was Neisseria Meningitidis. I could have lost my CI, my limbs, my eyesight, got into a coma or died. Instead I was walking, just, on my third day in isolation. (Albeit after prising myself into sitting upright of course, with a lot of determined grunting and clutching the bed rails as much as I could with my weakened arms.)

That first time, when I put my feet on the floor, my body felt almost like a leadweight on jelly legs. The next day, I was shuffling more, and my bowel movements were clean. 

(Believe it or not, I had to wear a nappy early on despite not eating for three days, but resolved to flush it all out by drinking tons of water. Come day four or five – it was over. Nurses were very impressed.)

Now I am home, I can see that the road is long – but I know I will get there. Full recovery is expected to be six months to a year. Thankfully I have no chronic health conditions. Historically, I barely have had complications arising from my illnesses; I have a strong track record in recovery. Prognosis is good. 

Although social care has had to be organised piecemeal, I have welcomed every kind of extra support going – schoolfriends’ mothers, a regular carer, my own friends and neighbours. I am sure everything will come together in time. 

Advertisements

Meningitis and I: one Deaf person’s account 

Uncategorized

I have bacterial meningitis. This is my sixth day in hospital. 

It’s the same illness that made me deaf as a baby. Just my luck. At least now I’m an adult and it’s been caught early, I can fight back more easily. 

I have been told by a doctor doing the rounds that I do not need rehab because I can walk, although mastering even short distances will take time. I’ve been doing self-care almost from day two – washing, cleaning my teeth, keeping myself mobile as much as possible. 

My appetite is returning, and I take care to eat balanced meals as far as possible. I keep drinking water in abundance. My body is very efficient at recovery, and I want to keep it that way.

You’d think that after six days in isolation I’d be clawing the walls. Not so. I’ve never felt more serene in my life. I have not felt depressed once, although I did have a good cry when I received a beautiful handmade card from my five-year-old son. 

It helps that I don’t have my CI processor with me, and haven’t heard a pip for six days. That chaotic Monday night – when an ambulance finally came, after four 999 calls by four different people – I’d struggled to think strategically. 

I hadn’t eaten for two days, and all the water I tried to drink came straight back up. Coca-Cola stayed down the first time, but not the second. It hurt to move. The daylight stung my eyes. The headaches – oh, how they banged. After only just managing the morning school run, I went to bed hoping to sleep it off – but when I woke up three hours later, I felt worse. 

So I texted the mother of one of my son’s school friends and asked her to accommodate him for the night after school. I hadn’t packed a bag. She sweetly offered to buy him a change of clothes and a toothbrush. 

That was the easy part. My older child, a beautiful girl who has cerebral palsy, was a whole other matter. I tried asking a carer that we’d had before, but she had full commitments. I tried my daughter’s school, again to no avail. 

By this time, I could barely lift my arms or keep my eyes open. Hours sped by. I looked at my watch and realised my daughter needed collecting in 15 minutes. 

By the time I reached my mobile – which lay on my bedside table – half a hour had already gone. 

My mobile burred constantly with text questions. I could only manage two or three words of reply. All I wanted to do was to lie in bed and leave everyone else to sort it out. My only wish was for somebody to call 999. 

(I have since learnt that my daughter’s school contacted her social worker, who arranged emergency overnight respite care, while the father of my children arranged to have them for a few days. He has since taken a week’s compassionate leave. Both children are aware of the situation.)

Afternoon shifted into evening. It felt like my world was at a standstill. The view from my bed stayed the same. In my CI processor-free state, I saw no passing car lights reflected on the walls. 

Night descended, and everything went monochromatic grey. There were no lights on in the flat. I felt panicky – but only momentarily: I was so ill. 

It’s funny how when the paramedics finally poked their torch through my bedroom door, my memory goes thin on detail. The bedroom light was switched on, and I recoiled like a vampire. A woman moved directly in front, casting her features in blackness. A local friend came in with them to help with communication. How had I managed to text her?

So many questions! They plonked a heaving nappy change bag on my lap, and asked if that would do. I said yes, because it had my make-up in it, and my keys. They threw in some other stuff – a book to read, my mobile and its recharger – and off we went. 

The ride to hospital was agony. I felt every rattle and bump as if it was to my naked bones. I clutched my hooded puffa coat to shield my eyes from the searing fluorescent lights. 

I think I stayed in a side room in A&E for two nights before being moved to my own room in Ward 10 (the Assessment and Observation Unit), where I have remained since. 

From experience I knew my hospital didn’t have the best track record in booking BSL interpreters, so I insisted on written notes. I was also lucky to have my mother around as I went through an elimination process to identify my infection. 

Soon after arrival in A&E, doctors started talking about a lumbar puncture. They said it was to rule out meningitis, but gut instinct told me otherwise. So when diagnosis came – via a short note – I simply rolled my eyes and said, ‘Well, at least we know what it is.’ I was more disappointed that I had to stay in hospital for a week due to the antibiotics. 

Upon moving to Ward 10, it felt odd, but not scary, to see staff in pale blue masks, aprons and gloves. (I was in isolation, after all.) Notes became virtually everyone’s only means of communication. 

Even personal visitors had to don the surgical get-up. My mother cut a dash in hers. A friend hoping to visit got turned away by the hospital reception, who didn’t know Ward 10 policy (it’s open all hours). 

I got used to it. I became intrigued by how the masks drew attention to the character of the eyes, and it was fun seeing how people adjusted to writing notes. 

My older sister, who came with her daughter, virtually wrote letters, which were marvellous to read. Others wrote one or two words at a time, usually due to poor English. 

A couple of nurses seemed to grow an affinity for me – notes can feel so personal. When I asked for ReadyBrek at breakfast, the woman taking my order wrote on a napkin, ‘We don’t have that. Would you like anything else dear?’ 

One unexpected development during my hospital stay is the visual hallucinations. They are not a high; I was never delirious or psychotic, despite a temperature of 38C initially. 

Rather, they are an inner cinema, there the instant I close and cover my eyes – an effect of the antibiotics and painkillers I am taking. 

In the first two days, they appeared as crisp HD digital animations that evolved constantly. I have managed to note down a few tableaux, which I’ll describe here. 

Ancient Egyptian cartoons, reworked in contemporary colours, projected as a film on a screen inside my eyelid. Handsome young bearded men in neck-ruffs, their sumptuous 16th century costumes becoming a profusion of flowers and foliage as you peer over their shoulders. 

Twisty camera angles of the kind you see in CGI sci-fi battles, swooping down to a strange, dark red, toad-like creature that opens its mouth to reveal a small circular stage with Italian commedia dell’arte characters, dressed in white and yellow, posing and smiling benignly. 

Tall, full-bodied digital roses, their deep pinks extending to the stems and leaves, being scanned top to bottom as if by a film camera on an adjustable base. A dazzling multi-coloured starry night sky, that turns into twirling rainbow fairy dust that then flings itself abundantly and diagonally back like luxuriant fireworks high up. 

Constructing these tableaux would be years in the planning. I don’t think they would work as paintings, but rather as immersive sensory multimedia installations, involving creative lighting, sculpture and rich textiles stitched to a level of craftsmanship equivalent to the Renaissance. I’m not sure I could do them in my present weakened state. 

Sadly, as I get better the visual hallucinations fade, blur, or solarise, a bit like a television struggling to produce a good picture. It’s all par for the course. 

Interestingly, the last clear tableau I got was of a gentle linear drawing of a bejewelled Buddha, floating in front of a watercolour patch of blue sky on parchment paper, opening and shutting like a door. Scrolling down I got a sense of being underwater – though the parchment backdrop remained – with huge sploshes of Yve Klein blue paint seeping, then indigo. 

The parchment then became a mini-photographic studio backdrop, with a simple road being pencilled in from the crease, and a toy pewter VW Beetle driving down it. Instead of the HD digital sheen, that scene had the look of 1990s TV footage, and got me thinking about the evolution of art through the centuries. 

Now that the visual hallucinations are fading I am enjoying my book (Angela Carter’s Book of Fairy Tales, if you must know) and my writing is flowing again. (I posted this in a hour.) I hadn’t realised how rare it is for me to get away from it all due to the vigours of single parenting and just potter around, hence my serenity. 

Now I must sleep. I need all the energy I can get for discharge day tomorrow. Thankyou for reading. 

New blog 

Uncategorized

I’ve started a new blog, where I give my definitive views on a variety of topics, touching upon politics, art, film and culture. 

It’s a way of flexing my political muscle that I’m not able to here or on my other blog, The Mostyn-Thomas Journal

Check it out. To commemorate the 20th anniversary of her death, this week’s topic is Diana, Princess of Wales. 

https://mostynonpolitics.wordpress.com/2017/08/31/diana-princess-of-wales/

8th March is International Women’s Day. Here’s why I stand up for male survivors of domestic abuse

blog

IMG_5433Image courtesy of source

On a day dedicated to celebrating the achievements of women everywhere, for me to be writing about male victims of domestic abuse instead may sound odd. Some may not understand how that correlates with feminism. As always, the movement has a knack of highlighting inequalities you never knew existed, and I’d like this blog to be one example.

As a feminist, I don’t seek to oppress men, but to eliminate the oppression of women. I may be stating the obvious. But in light of the misogyny that has grown exponentially in recent months in the run-up to – and following – the election of the present Republican administration, it’s also unfortunately become necessary.

Likewise, actress Emma Watson was ‘quietly stunned’ by the backlash to a cover that she posed nearly topless in and shared earlier this week. Her response was to counter with, ‘Feminism is about giving women choice…It’s not a stick with which to beat women with. It’s about freedom, it’s about liberation, it’s about equality.’

That speaks directly to me. Not just because I’m a binary female, but also because I believe that in liberating women, feminism also liberates men.

How so? Fundamentally it boils down to embracing your feminine side, that bit that so terrifies men and women get picked on for espousing. ‘You run like a girl.’ ‘You dress like a woman.’ ‘Leave the touchy-feely stuff to the ladies.’

The irony of such vilification is how it reflects men’s insecurities about themselves, rather than the perceived weaknesses of the people they mock. Even they know that femininity and masculinity is inherent in all of us, to varying degrees; like yin and yang, you can’t have one without the other. Masculinity isn’t some fragile male construct that’s going to vaporise like Boss cologne when your female colleagues start punching above their weight on a regular basis.

Rather, it exists as an opportunity for men to get in touch with their ‘feminine side’ – their emotions – and try to reach some sort of inner equilibrium that way.

By that I don’t mean indulging in froufrou blouses and high heels if that’s not what you want to do. Rather, it’s a matter of taking a long, hard look at yourself and identifying what it is about you that embarrasses other men. Have you ever been picked on for showing respect towards women, or the way you run? Do you harbour a secret predilection for pink shirts? Do you have pigeon toes? If you say ‘yes’ to all of those and follow that up with ‘…and I don’t even care’, then kudos to you.

Otherwise, trivial though these questions are, they’re a way of flagging up society’s expectations of you as a man, and how these impact on your own behaviour. That women wrestle with unrealistic and often contradictory expectations every day is well-documented. But expectations of men are also unrealistic, and that’s why patterns of abusive behaviour and shame prevail more among them.

Statistics for male victims of domestic violence are hazy, but that is not unique to them. Female victims suffer in silence too. Unfortunately we have no way of knowing how many men, and how many women, are prevented from reporting intimate partner abuse due to oppression, stigma and prejudice. To put it bluntly, you can’t record silence.

However, reported statistics show that the vast majority of perpetrators are male. More men are responsible for the abuse of other men and women – and children – than women. Much of the scarce press coverage surrounding male survivors feeds off the misogynistic belief that a man wouldn’t even allow himself to get in the kind of situation that a woman would.

So prevalent is this attitude, that it even affects how the press frames domestic abuse of LGBTQ people. ‘Well, if they’re less than men’, crow the bigots, ‘it would happen to them, wouldn’t it?’

Yet the oft-touted statistic that domestic abuse affects one in four women and one in six men is not straightforward. Refuge’s own statistics reveal that a significant majority of men reporting abuse have themselves perpetuated violence against their partners, and are more likely to report one-off incidents. When the abuse is limited to four or more recurring incidents, the percentage of victims who are female jumps to 89%.

Unfortunately, it is a common tactic of perpetuators to claim victimhood as a way of covering up their own crime. They’re also far less likely to blame recurring abuse on the real victims, for the practical reason that it’s easier to remember the truth.

Where does that leave the genuine male victims? Following my own coming-out as a domestic abuse survivor three years ago, one unexpected development was the coming forward of male survivors. Although smaller in number to the female survivors who also confided in me, they had the greater impact as an illustration of how convoluted domestic abuse really is.

These straight men had been abused by their ex-partners. They demonstrated respect for women, and couldn’t understand how that could have made them victims.

What these guys highlighted was the notion that turning the table on male perpetuators simply because they’re male doesn’t redress the balance in any way – it simply redirects the misogyny without a solution. Far fewer women than men perpetuate domestic abuse – but are three times more likely to be arrested for it. How is that proportional to the numerous crimes perpetuated by men who escape arrest? 

Men suffer from domestic violence in silence due to their own stigma, imposed by other men in society. They’re less likely to report ongoing partner abuse to the police because ‘it’s too trivial or not worth reporting’. Yet the choice impacts adversely on their psychological wellbeing in the long term, and doesn’t really further the feminist cause enough if we don’t address it.

So if we’re to promote true gender equality, we need to recognise that men also suffer from domestic abuse (albeit in smaller numbers), and support them without judgement. We need to be reminding them that showing vulnerability takes courage, misogyny is primarily male self-disgust projected onto another person, and that frank admittance to their own quirks and flaws is as much a display of respect for the whole human race as it is for themselves.

Happy International Women’s Day.

International Klein Blue: The Story of Ultramarine And The Man Who Patented It

journalism, Visual art

French contemporary artist Yves Klein was so obsessed with the dry ultramarine pigment that the binding agent he invented for it is now synonymous with his work.

Yves Klein’s fixation with dry ultramarine pigment can be traced back to 1948, when Klein and two of his friends lay on a Nice beach in the South of France. Gazing up at the sky, the 20-year-old wrote his signature in its space—thus declaring the sky his first artwork.

Infinite space then became a preoccupation, with Klein exploring ways of emulating its ambiguity. This included producing a limited–edition catalogue, Yves: Peintures, which claimed that he produced a series of monochrome paintings while travelling to Europe and Japan in 1948–54. This was his first public gesture as an artist.

In 1955, Klein discovered ultramarine, a blue so deep and vibrant it hummed. However, mixing it with water diluted the dry pigment’s intensity. Determined, he worked with the chemical manufacturer Eduard Adam to invent a synthetic resin fixative that could suspend the powder without changing its colour—thus retaining its velvety luminosity in paint form.

So effective was the result that Klein patented it as International Klein Blue (IKB), and used it extensively as part of his oeuvre. He impregnated canvas, classical plaster casts and sponges with IKB, applying it thickly so to boost what he called its ‘cosmic energy.’

To celebrate the launch of his 1957 Monochrome Propositions exhibition at the Iris Clert gallery in rue des Saint–Honores, Paris— which contained 11 numbered IKB canvas suspended 20 feet away from the walls— 1,001 IKB balloons were released outside.

At the International Gallery of Contemporary Art—also in Paris—nude women drenched themselves in IKB before making body imprints on white papers laid out on the wall in front of an invited black-tie audience. Meanwhile an orchestra solemnly played the Monotone Symphony, a musical composition made up of a single 20-minute chord, followed by 20 minutes of utter silence.

Particularly notorious was The Specialization of Sensibility in the Raw Material State into Stabilized Pictorial Sensibility, The Void, a show hosted by the Iris Clert gallery in 1958.

On its opening night, guests received invitations written in ultramarine ink with a specially–made IKB stamp, and were served blue cocktails upon entering the gallery via a hallway also covered in IKB. Two uniformed Republican guards stood outside, cranking up the sense of occasion, while the street heaved with crowds jostling to take a look.

Once inside, however, the visitors were confronted by a bare, white space, utterly devoid of furniture save a glass display cabinet. The exhibition was about nothing. Rumours abound of fights breaking out and outraged guests storming out, allegedly unaware that the cocktails they had just drunk would turn their urine blue the next day—to the artist’s delight.

As one of four artists commissioned to decorate the new Gelsenkirchen opera house in Germany, Klein created six giant murals: four IKB sponge reliefs 10 metres high—two for the long wall of the main hall, two for the cloakroom on the lower level— and another two textured blue monochromes measuring 20 metres long for the shorter walls of the main hall.

Due to their scale, the sponge reliefs needed a stronger agent to preserve their colour, and Klein is said to have complained of the noxious fumes making him ill while he worked.

IKB’s contribution to Yves Klein’s premature death from a heart attack at the age of 33 in 1962 is yet to be substantiated, but it can be said that the blue that made his name is also a powerful bequest to contemporary art.

This article originally appeared on Suite101.com in April 2009.

Toy Like Me: a statement

campaign, social media

18% of the UK population are deaf or disabled, and this figure is on the rise due to people living longer. Every man, woman, and child is likely to see disability on the street every day. If toys are to educate about the world around us today, shouldn’t their manufacturers acknowledge deaf and disabled children too?

Take my daughter Isobel. She is seven and one of the cheeriest little girls I know. (Don’t take my word for it: her school says the same.)

Despite being a happy-go-lucky princess who loves sign-singing, dancing, sparkly shoes and tutus, Isobel has shown little to no interest in conventional High Street toys. She has never embraced her only doll, a Bratz figure given to her as a Christmas present. Indeed, she has pushed it away with such regularity and force that her younger, non-disabled, brother has quit trying to get her to play with it.

Of course, Isobel isn’t your average little girl. As someone living with cerebral palsy and restricted mobility, she is much happier relating to other disabled children (who, incidentally, are a regular feature on her favourite television show, Cbeebies’ Something Special). With its cartoonish, defiantly non-disabled shape, that Bratz doll is the last thing she wants to aspire to.

Before anyone opines that it is a matter of taste, I can categorically state that it is not. In April last year, I plonked a giant teddy bear in her buggy with its legs in splints that she’d outgrown. Upon seeing it, my six-year-old daughter was moved, and gave me a massive hug. (This is significant. Isobel has no speech and signs very little, and had never shown such emotion before.) A lollipop-stick Kay-walker that I made just like hers, to go with a Moxie doll, triggered a similar reaction.

img_4294

An early #toylikeme prototype, and Isobel aged six

Those experiments were among the earliest prototypes created for Toy Like Me, the campaign for better representation of disability in mainstream toys. 

Started by a group of parents who were either themselves deaf and/or disabled, had disabled children of their own – or both – it initially worked by customising toys representing disability in a fun way, and sharing the photos on a designated Facebook page and Twitter with the hashtag #toylikeme.

Together we kept busy calling upon the biggest UK and global toy manufacturers – Mega Bloks, Mattel, LEGO, Playmobil, Fisher-Price and Little Tikes to name a few – to remedy their current ranges by adding positive representation of disability to the toy shop shelves. Rather than making it our business to produce the toys regularly, we wanted them to make it theirs.

Of course, we were aware of toys representing disability already on the market. However before Toy Like Me, you had to do the legwork, or go via medical companies like Cochlear, who supply dummy CI processors for your child to attach to their teddy.

Otherwise, the disabled toy figure you were most likely to see on the High Street either occupied a sterile medical setting, or was nearing the end of their lives. This is surely a major disincentive for assuring a Deaf or disabled child of their place in mainstream society.

Where were the wheelchair-using pirates, the disfigured princesses, the fairies in arm-splints, the deaf cheerleaders, the blind Action Men that would boost the body confidence of Isobel and 150 million other children like her worldwide?

Where were the toys that would give them something to play out their own, real-life, experiences through?

The customised Moxie doll

They would assert to the world that not only do deaf and disabled children have aspirations of their own – but are just as fun to play with as non-disabled children. They would provide an excellent opportunity for non-disabled children to learn the value of living alongside their disabled peers as an irrefutable part of humanity, rather than an abomination. Their novelty value would come from the fact that a child is not born with an attitude, but learns it through the influence of others: specifically, adults.

I am honoured to have been one of Toy Like Me’s founders, working with deafblind journalist Rebecca Atkinson (who I must credit the initial concept to) and play consultant Karen Newell – whose son is registered blind – to raise awareness of the issue worldwide. As its social media manager, I’m proud to have fuelled its exponential growth with the first celebrity retweet – by the disfigured model and disability rights campaigner Katie Piper – in just three days following the official launch, quickly followed by comedian Rory Bremner and CBeebies presenter Cerrie Burnell.

Two of our first celebrity endorsements. April, 2015

I have never had a project snowball quite like Toy Like Me. The Facebook page alone went from 200 ‘likes’ in 10 days to over 24,000 in four months, with endorsements from not just the aforesaid celebrities but also Glynis Barber, Eastenders actor Rita Simons’ husband Trey, actor Josette Simon, amputee model Kelly Knox (winner of Britain’s Missing Top Model), author Julia Donaldson, comedy writer and actor Stephen Merchant, and many, many more.

Parents from scores of countries including Britain, Israel, Turkey, Singapore, America, France, Italy, and Japan have shared pictures of their own customised toys with the hashtag #toylikeme on Facebook and Twitter. Some have even started their own businesses online. Our first Change.org petition, which addressed Playmobil, quickly amassed over 50,000 signatures and resulted in the multinational giant agreeing to consult us on a new range of disabled toys.

Media from across the world took notice (and still are, as I type). As co-founder I particpated in TV interviews with BBC’s See Hear – where I got to meet the world’s first ever set of disabled dolls (created by Makies), including one with a facial disfigurement named after me, in honour of that first, meteoric, celebrity retweet – and the American TV network station CBS (clip here). 

Me, meeting the world’s first set of disabled dolls, made by Makies. See Hear TV interview, summer 2015

Due to heavy parent-caring responsibilities, I had to step down earlier this year. The decision was not taken lightly and I am grateful to both Rebecca Atkinson and Karen Newell for their support.

Toy Like Me is one of the most singular and greatest successes I have ever contributed to. I couldn’t have wished for a better, or more novel, project to be part of. That a major website has been launched since my leaving – offering a one-stop resource for buying disabled toys online – is exciting news indeed and I, and I’m sure Isobel would, wish my hitherto collaborators, supporters, and everyone else involved in the campaign, every success in advancing the future of toys.

www.toylikeme.org

Re-taking off Outside: review of David Bowie’s Outside tour first-night performance, Wembley Stadium, 14th November 1995 

journalism

 

Note: This review, originally an assignment set by my MA tutor at Central Saint Martins School of Art in 1995, helped me land a Pass with Distinction, and is still considered my best work from that time. Today, in tribute to David Bowie – who died yesterday morning (10th January 2016) – I share it, unabridged, for your reading pleasure.

Having read the reviews of the American leg of his Outside tour, I expected David Bowie to be clad in blazing Rock Star silver. So his selected outfit for Wednesday’s concert at Wembley Arena – his first in Britain for five years – was a surprise. The former Thin White Duke emerged dressed in an artfully stained, crumpled top and trousers that matched the drapes of the masked dummies hanging on the ceiling, and did not change once.

The antithesis of Bowie’s impeccable dress sense, the subdued choice turned out to be deliberate. In it Bowie was able to slide into various character roles as each new song came on – a fiercely sensual Minotaur, a pensive ‘art-crime’ detective, a contemptuous Andy Warhol – with the ease of a mime artist, concentrating his portrayals to the upper part of his body. By the concert’s end, I was left reeling from a virtual resurrection of the old chameleon resplendent in Technicolor.

Support act Morrissey, who preceded him, displayed characteristic ardour in sampling his new album, Southpaw Grammar, lunging repeatedly at an illusory opponent to the strains of Dagenham Dave and narcissistically stroking a bare, fleshy chest to cheers from a half-full Arena.

However, not even an impromptu kiss of the hand from a kneeling fan could raise the temperature like Morrissey’s professed hero could. As soon as the backing band opened the concert proper with the soulful Motel, the whole crowd stood up like a thousand rows of luxurious glam-rock eyelashes opening in anticipation.

Curiously restrained after Morrissey’s foppish excesses though he seemed, Bowie moved with more panache. He struck precise triangular poses with one foot stretched back, the microphone stand leaning inwards to meet his refined profile.

To some unearthly notes, he mimed – beautifully – a bird cruising in slow motion. As Andy Warhol, he stood with his back to the audience, every now and then repeating a haughty half-turn with hand on chin, and then twitched and shook under a flashing solarium light before letting out a silent scream.

A highly developed and futuristic concept places Outside in 1999, centring round an ‘art-crime’ detective, Nathan Adler, and his investigation into the murder of 14-year-old Baby Grace Blue. Gruesome as certain details sound – apparently the victim’s “stomach was carefully flapped open and the intentines removed, disentangle and re-knitted…into a small web” – the story does give Bowie’s band a far more definite idea of how Outside should be played.

In preparation for the recording of Outside, Bowie’s long-time collaborator, Brian Eno, is said to have handed out cards instructing stuff like: “You are about the encounter such a scene of utter destruction that can happen to any human body that you view it as a thing of beauty” to individual band members.

Pretentious? Perhaps. Then again, who else would risk artistic integrity for the sake of such stirring avant-garde music? Satirical? Probably. Could you honestly take seriously Adler’s reflection on Baby Grace’s death that “it was murder…but was it art?”?

Art, design and media is increasingly resorting to apocalyptic means as we near the end of the 20th century – be it a McQueen frock, a Tarantino film or a Hirst shark. Outside is meant to be a satire of our times, a means of illustrating Bowie’s concern about where all this is heading.

Outside re-embraces Bowie’s androgynous chameleon-like persona. The new album is strongly reminiscent of Diamond Dogs, his stylishly apocalyptic 1974 offering, and indeed, the stage is framed with hanging cinema signs announcing ‘Open the Dog’ in French and English. Other old favourites – among them Andy Warhol, which originally appeared on 1972’s Hunky Dory album – Under Pressure and the immortal Man Who Sold the World were also played out to souped-up tunes.

Watching a deliciously hallucinatory recital of The Man Who… I even imagined for a minute that I was viewing a Space Oddity. “Oh no, not me/I never lost control/You’re face to face/With the man who sold the world,” the familiar transatlantic voice warbled, as an awesome sequence of solarium lights flashed, swooped and swerved in Close Encounters of the Third Kind-like chorus.

One main difference materialises between Bowie then and Bowie now. He is make-up free except for the dark eyeshadow encircling those freakish eyes. The physique, once skeletal, is compact and hints at musculature. He might be playing different characters, but instead of dressing up as them he leaves their physical appearances in his computer. Baby Grace, Detective Adler and the Minotaur appear in the accompanying tour catalogue and on the album sleeve, their faces morphed from visages of people who fit the archetype and Bowie’s own.

Since Scary Monsters in 1980, Outside marks Bowie’s return to his aesthetic best. (Hugely popular though it was, Let’s Dance in 1983 ultimately compromised Bowie’s creativity, consequently becoming the beginning of a new low: Bowie fell out of tune with Mars and risked turning into just another coke’d out rock dinosaur struggling to recapture his lost youth. The singer has said that the Let’s Dance era was one he would rather forget.) He evidently relishes performing, and the result is an exhilarating piece of theatre.

All of Bowie’s collaborations with Eno have met with cultish acclaim before, particularly Low and Heroes, both of which cemented Bowie’s status as a far-reaching avant-garde rock musician. If plans go accordingly and Outside becomes the prelude to a trilogy, prepare for your senses to be sent reeling once again to another planet.

(c) Melissa Mostyn 1995

Blog: Deaf survivors and domestic abuse

other blog

Originally published on the Women’s Aid website on 7th December 2015. Part of their 16 Days of Activism Against Gender-based Violence campaign. Blog link here

At the national Women’s Aid conference this year, I was amazed to find I was the only Deaf survivor there. Despite a full house, there was no evidence of British Sign Language (BSL) users in attendance. I asked who in the room supported Deaf survivors – and shockingly, was met with silence.

Deaf women are twice as likely as their hearing peers to suffer domestic abuse. Around 22 Deaf women are at risk of abuse every day. Ironically, a key role in this is played by BSL, their preferred language – as every word and expression could be a potential trigger.

The history of BSL is itself laden with centuries of oppression of Deaf people. That it has survived, and continues to evolve as a living language (and has only now acquired formal legislation in Scotland) is testimony to the resolve of Deaf people themselves. After all, it’s their main form of communication – so they will bloody well use it, whatever the circumstances.

One in six of us are deaf or hard-of-hearing, and only around a third of us are part of a Deaf Community. Two-thirds of deaf or hard-of-hearing people don’t hang out with other deaf or hard-of-hearing people – they might wear hearing aids and lip read but they don’t sign, and they may prefer to integrate with hearing people. Many of those people become deaf through old age and are often isolated from other deaf people.

Moreover, if your perpetrator is active within the Deaf Community, they’ll know how to exploit your communication skills. This inhibits you from reaching out to even your closest Deaf friends – never mind your family (many of whom lack signing skills).

But the experience of domestic abuse for Deaf women is the same as hearing women. We are seduced by our perpetrator’s apparent sincerity, their psychological control – grooming us for abuse. By the time the violence turns physical, we’re emotionally and mentally paralysed, unable to articulate ourselves properly to those close to us.

Your trust, self-esteem and well-being thus broken, your signing breaks up too. You daren’t explain the smallest detail of your abuse to anyone, for fear word reaches your perpetrator (gossip spreads fast in the Deaf Community). With so many eyes on you, clear-headed objectivity feels impossible.

You cannot hide your emotions behind sign language quite like you can with the written word. Deaf people are well-known for bluntness, which doesn’t sit well with a democracy where justice must prevail, and people are innocent until proven guilty.

How best to address this issue? I was lucky enough to be able to access DeafHope, the UK’s first anti-domestic abuse service for Deaf survivors – but sadly, few will be in their London catchment area. The only advice I could give that day at the Women’s Aid conference was placing BSL clips on their websites (see example).

To that, I’d add Deaf awareness training and a few BSL classes. The more we can work together on the issue, the more chances will improve of Deaf survivors ‘speaking out’ like I did.

NHS Safeguarding: Hidden Voices Conference, 27th October 2015

public speaking

image

The picture above shows over 350 hearing medical professionals standing to give a hand wave in solidarity for the Deaf survivor who gave a raw and painful account of her domestic abuse experiences, in BSL, for 45 minutes.

That survivor was me. NHS Safeguarding’s invitation in October 2015 came courtesy of Women’s Aid, at whose annual conference I had also appeared the previous summer. It was not a public conference, but one attended by senior NHS medical professionals, which made for an ideal ‘safe space’.

It was also oversubscribed: tickets sold out within three weeks of release in July, and there were another 280 on the waiting list.

image

Presenting as a keynote speaker at such a prestigious event was a honour. I was especially touched that NHS Safeguarding made purple – the colour I wore when I ‘came out’ as a survivor during #deafpurplethursday (more info here) – their signature colour, even getting delegates to wear something purple. The theme – Hidden Voices – was established after direct consultation with me.

It is by far the most important presentation I have ever had to make.