It’s hard to speak for a big group of people. Today 25 or so of the Bellwethers makers gathered together at Abbot Hall art gallery in Kendal to see their work. In fact, it’s the work of over 160 people, all busying away over the past year.
And so for the first time, lots of folk met face-to-face. They’d already seen some of each other’s poems and drawings, sometimes editing, sometimes responding to work in a kind of exchange. We stood in the room together, exploring the pieces, considering the words on the walls, the poems as text posters, the soundscape, the film and the case with its many manuscripts and ancient animal bones. All of these, things of beauty, of intrigue. Every word written by the makers, people who might not describe themselves as writers or artists, but who’ve connected with their creativity and most certainly have a story to tell, ideas to share.
“I can’t believe I’ve done this,” said K, reaching out and touching his piece on the wall, as he reconnected with that moment of making. “It’s such a relief to put some of the dark stuff of life onto paper” said someone else. To own it and by sharing with others who’ve had similar experiences to leave behind shame.
And we shared the Bellwethers books. Books filled with poems, music scores, and artworks, wrapped in covers resplendent in black and white – featuring work by everyone in attendance, much to their delight.
After the time spent up in the gallery, absorbing everything that’s there, the complex story that it weaves, we went to the cafe and over coffee and a delightful variety of cakes, we sat together in one big noisy group. We read Wordsworth together, concocting lines in response to make one last group poem – a near impossible attempt to collect everybody onto one piece of paper in that moment. And we talked about how special it’s been to be a Bellwether. To turn trouble and shame into something good.
A final thought from M: “There’s been a lot of impermanence in my life, it’s one of the things that I think about when I look at daffodils. How delicate they are, their short span, just a little time in the Spring season. Like us humans, delicate, trying to find the light.”
