Art isn’t precious, life is 

As children we’re taught the difference between what’s right and wrong, good and bad, there are basic rules. Then you grow up into this world and realise how things really work and cynicism, distrust and, worst of all, numbness follows. It’s easy to share a story, make a comment, write words of outrage and solidarity behind the safety of my screen. It takes nothing and no time. It’s probably even easier to look away from the graphic, violent horror, grievous injuries, death and unfathomable pain and suffering and refer to the complexity of “these matters”. Fearful of consequences, of speaking up when our peers are silent, fearful of shaking the status quo. Fearful of losing everything we worked so hard for. We’ve seen the work of artists and academics being cancelled for taking a pro- Palestine stance, and sure it’s “safer” to keep our mouths shut and political statements to ourselves for fear of missing out on an opportunity or a festival or whatever. Organisations and institutions weren’t silent in their support for Ukraine back in 2022, and rightly so. But silence now is definitely not neutral. It’s deafening. Let’s be clear - calling for a ceasefire is not even political, it’s basic humanity. And being labelled antisemitic or punished for it is dystopian and twisted. Calling for an end to Apartheid and sale of weapons could be considered political, but it’s not. Most people call for those things from a basic understanding of human rights. The right to LIFE and SELF DETERMINATION.

When all is said and done can our precious art really fill the void in our soul and justify our silence and inaction in this shameful moment where the basic humanity of some is completely ripped away and the basic humanity of those in power is so blatantly and brazenly suppressed at best, non- existent at worst and it becomes so glaringly obvious just how sick on money and power this world order actually is. And you feel like a blinkered fool for ignoring, playing along and benefitting from it for so long. In fact we’ve not only benefitted, but flourished in this system. What the hell! Is this hell? Imagine 17,000+ children and babies (some with severe injuries, newly acquired disabilities and all with unimaginable trauma) are ALONE, no surviving family. Alone in this world. This is hell. Shameful hell.  What does the future look like for those who manage to survive this hell? If we can’t scream for this to stop, for the freedom of Palestine, for International humanitarian law to actually be respected and upheld, worldwide, what does the future hold for humanity? There’s no going back now. The machine is broken. It’s painful and difficult but there’s no going back to way things were. We are all altered by this. Humanity is begging for an immediate ceasefire and justice. Too late for too many. But not for those still living. 

Life is precious and without it, art is meaningless.

Emma Martin, 16th February 2024

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Everything probably begins in the dark…my abyss staring deeply into yours Silence. Everything fell silent from what came before, which was probably bad renditions of pop songs from the noughties sung with too much want and need. A dull light flicks on, one of those crap energy saver light bulbs. A huge painted canvas, taking up your entire field of vision - all pastoral browns, pinks and greens. Dusty low sunset scene, far off horizon. A handful of withered petals blow in from somewhere to nowhere, and an empty Tayto packet trundles by. Are we on a road somewhere? A road to somewhere from here. The air has a familiar smell…a mixture of patchouli, Lynx, cut grass and rotting fruit. Pan-pipes echo in the distance. From nowhere a pink cloud of smoke forms- it’s blushing from the inside and appears to be throbbing. As it blushes everything else seems to go grey. Voices. Indecipherable gibberish and mouth sounds and the Pan-pipes getting louder and louder. The cloud takes on the impression of a beating heart in those videos of open-heart surgery- furiously pumping. Rain. The sound of torrential rain drowns out the pan-pipes. Sudden silence again. A small bird bursts though the cloud like a bullet, and there’s brief interlude of kamikaze sweetness and panic, followed by a deafening barrage of whistles and squawks. Underneath the cloud a puddle of shiny pink gloop appears on the ground, dripping from above like honey off an invisible spoon. The light turns golden in colour, getting brighter until it hurts to look. A cacophony of sound and colours pass and the cloud dissipates. In its place a creature that resembles a mammoth standing on its hind legs, shimmies delicately. Steam billows from its nostrils, eyes are red. More petals blow across from nowhere to somewhere. The air is so chill you can almost see the heat from the animal emanate. There’s a small radio playing somewhere, a tinny sound. Wichita Line Man? The more folky side of country. From a distance you can hear the sound of heels - click clack click clack– approaching from behind the painted canvas. A small girl appears through a slit…barefooted. An arrow stabs the ground in front of the creature resembling a mammoth. It bows gracefully like a royal page boy and backs away through the slit, still in a bowed position. Suddenly you hear the growls of advanced labour pains,  and they’re drowned out by tonnes of stones being emptied off the back of a quarry truck. Tonnes and tonnes. Thunderous and terrifying. A charred Christmas tree rolls past on wheels, complete with melted baubles. The small girl dances and leaves. Labour growls again, fading away to a lone baroque flute, full of hope. Back to silence. The painted canvas falls to the floor

2022