Art and the Female Form

Art and the Female Form

Last night we played Late Bedtime Roulette to take the children out in town. We try not to do it very often, because any activity that takes place after dinner is universally unwelcome to my offspring.

Still, God loves a trier, so try we do.

There was a concert in the park, and it was also the first night of The Performance Arcade 2015 so the entire waterfront had a chilled out vibe with the lilt of music and the smell of food stalls floating on the warm evening air.

I will share some of my photos from the evening next week, but despite being singularly unqualified to talk about art, there is one piece from the Arcade which has bored into my mind and demands that I tell its story.

Viewing #2 by Kelsey Woodford is housed in a shipping container, just like all the others around it. You wait your turn and step inside to be greeted by a beautiful young lady wearing nothing but a warm smile. In her hand is a Polaroid camera and on the walls around her are photos of all the visitors she has received: Her piece is intended to reverse the role of the nude from passive viewee to active viewer and to challenge how we view nudes in art.

But Kelsey accidentally challenges another perspective with her figure and that is the the very definition of a beautiful woman.

Kelsey is the owner of a stunningly Boticelli-esque figure, which is very much at odds with the current fashion for size bugger-all hips and spindly gapped thighs. She shouldn't exude a warm confidence about her body, she should be covering up, hiding in her room crying into her salad and wishing she were thinner.

She's not; and her statement has been playing on my mind because I just couldn't shake the comparison to Boticelli's nudes.

It felt like an obvious comparison because Boticelli was an artist who courted controversy his entire career. But looking past the scandal of painting women as sexual, he also made a bold statement about beauty by painting women with curves when large swathes of the population could barely consume enough calories to stop themselves from blowing over in a stiff breeze.

How strange to realise that we have come full circle and how comforting to know that the grass has always been greener when it comes to the size of our bodies.

Friday, 20 February 2015 Comments: 0

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The Story Of The Watermelon Seeds

The Story Of The Watermelon Seeds

We eat a lot of watermelon, mostly because it is one of the few fruit that Miss Olive will allow to pass her lips. That wasn't always the case, at first her opinion of watermelon was the same as any other fruit and could probably be best described as deep mistrust.

Then I took a gamble and shoved a small piece into he mouth mid complaint and lo, she doth adore the melon made of water.

But that's not the real story here, the story is the story that I have to tell the children every single time we eat watermelon (which as I have already mentioned is A LOT) so I thought it might be nice to write it down ready for the moment we have to write wedding speeches:

The scene is set; Keith has brought the melon to the table on a board and is busy cutting it into cubes when one of the children, usually Esme, will turn a furrowed brow to me:

Child: Tell us the story of the pits

Me: Again?! OK, so once there was a watermelon plant who wondered how it could get its seeds far away so they could grow in their own soil.

Child: And a dog has legs ...

Me: Umm, yes a dog has legs, but the plant doesn't so how can it spread its seed?

Child: ... and poo!

Me: Again yes, but we're still talking about the watermelon plant. So the watermelon plant puts all its seeds into the biggest, sweetest, juiciest fruit it can grow

Child: And I eat it

Me: Yes! Yes you eat it. An then the pig comes along and nom, nom, nom it eats a bit ...

Child: And does a poo

Me: After a while, it does a poo, a bit like you. When you eat something it goes through your body and once you have taken all the ...

Child: And the seeds are in the poo.

Me: They are, but when you do a poo where are you?

Child: In the toilet

Me: OK I walked into that one. What I mean is that you are a long way away from the plant aren't you?

Baby: AH POO!

Me: You've done a poo?

Baby: Uh-oh! POO!!!

Me: A poo or a wee?

Baby: POO!

Keith: She's done a wee

Baby: A POO!!!!!

Child: And the pig does a poo too

Me: And the poo has seeds in it that will land in new soil and ...

Child: GROW INTO MORE WATERMELONS!!!

By this point I need a damn rest and I have missed out on most of the watermelon that the children have been shovelling into their faces between poo references. As a final insult, Miss Olive has spent the whole story throwing her gnawed watermelon rind at the side of my head to really emphasise the point that she is eating melon, and I am not.

Like I said, just wanted to write that down for future reference.

Wednesday, 18 February 2015 Comments: 0

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Does Enid Blyton Have a Place on My Children’s Bookshelf?

Does Enid Blyton Have a Place on My Children’s Bookshelf?

When I walk into the house most evenings I feel like I am playing catch-up: The rest of the family have spent the day sharing jokes, adventures, and even after I'm updated by three screeching children, I'm usually no wiser about their day than before I arrived.

What has that got to do with Enid Blyton?

Well the other night I was left feeling slightly bemused by the fact that when dinner was finished, faces were cleaned, and pyjamas were thrown on, there was a very enthusiastic consensus that the book of the evening was Five Go Off to Camp. 

I have no concept, how the words “Famous” and “Five” even came into their vocabulary, let alone how it had trumped the smorgasbord of modern children’s classics but, sure enough, out came a small battered hardback book and while I shovelled plates into the dishwasher, the sounds of hysterical laughter drifted in from the lounge.

This is the point where I should set out my stall when it comes to Enid Blyton; I am a fan of hers, and I have been since I was knee high to a grasshopper.

I spent chunks of my childhood as an onlooker to The Famous Five; living through George’s eyes, caught up in the adventures of a strong minded girl who got to say all of the things I wanted to say, and do all the things I wanted to do.

I was aware that the language was old fashioned, and in some cases offensive, but it never got in the way of my love of the books or the stories they told because (like most children) I cared more about characters than grammar.

I suppose that is what the Enid Blyton Society is referring to when they challenge the need to modernise these stories as the result of “adults who underestimate the intelligence of children”. And maybe I would go further still and say that this drive to rewrite Blyton’s work shows a fundamental lack of understanding of how children engage with books, and with their own imagination.

Imagination is a fundamental tool that children use to understand and contextualise events that are not directly in front of them; ask them what they want to be when they grow up, or to imagine the earth when the dinosaurs ruled and a child falls back on their imagination. It’s an abstract concept, built up of experiences and cemented by the gradual accumulation of cultural markers. 

I agree with Edd Mccracken’s point that “Books are written in and are a record of a certain time and place. We read books to visit these fixed points. So, to change passages years later is to warp history. In Blyton’s case, it gives the impression that her time was free from racist language and stereotypes.” 

Taking this point further, reading Blyton’s books with their original language could be argued to be more helpful to children than reading a modernised version because they still contain the clear cultural markers that place them as an historical story. 

Reading books that differ from the modern sensibilities opens the door to conversations about privilege, feminism, poverty, identity, oppression, murder … I make my house sound like a bundle of fun, don’t I? But I think these conversations are important, and I trust my children to be able to process the journey our species has taken without it putting them into therapy. 

When it comes to The Famous Five stories in particular, I see past the dated references, to a world that gives a sense of normality to the sort of behaviour we want to foster; whatever criticisms you might level at those children, they are self-sufficient, responsible, assess risk, respectful of natural dangers and trust their support network to step in when the latest in a long line of local criminal masterminds threatens to kill them off. 

I think that Enid Blyton has earned her place on our bookshelf, and not just because, as the publisher Hodder says, “that the Famous Five books have come to appeal more to parents than to their children,”  but because they are a relevant today as they were in 1942. If they inspire another generation of children to want to pack up a bag and join their friends in adventure, some might say they are even more so. And if they encourage us to be honest about some of the less appealing aspects of our history, then I would say there were worth their weight in gold.

Thursday, 12 February 2015 Comments: 0

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A Review of Little Ones Care Pack

A Review of Little Ones Care Pack

At the end of last week we received our third Little Ones Pack from My Care Pack. 

Well I'm going to assume we received it rather than it appearing by osmosis, but I can’t be sure because by the time I got home from work, there was nothing left but shreds of blue tissue paper and a box that looked as if it had been opened by an impatient Wolverine. 

I'm actually slightly gutted to have missed the grand opening of our last Little Ones Pack, I had begun to look forward to the bundle of small children peering over and under each other to discover what surprises lay inside their parcel.

Because in reality, that is what this service offers you; a selection of surprises your children will love and which are outside of their normal range of entertainment.  

The theme this month was Me & My Jungle Friends which we thought was pretty broad, and in some cases a matter of perspective:

Bamboo Jungle Whistle - This whistle is about as far from my friend as it is possible to get. Imagine the noise and feeling of your head reaching boiling point and splitting apart from the pressure of steam and you will be halfway to understanding the effect this whistle has on me in the hands of a three year old. I am only vaguely aware of the cute elephant head, or good quality finish because all I can focus on is the pain being inflicted on me as my fillings vibrate in time with my daughter’s "music". She, on the other hand, thinks this whistle is her new favourite thing which just proves my point that perspective is everything.

Jungle Notes and Scented Markers - I have a slight philosophical argument with any marker that actively encourages children to sniff it; but then I am of the generation when Magic Markers really did make you see magical things so perhaps I'm prejudiced. Anything involving drawing is a winner with my children so potential drug addiction aside, this has been a big – and pleasantly silent – hit with everyone. 

Giant Neon Snake - This is the second plastic snake to join the family but it seems to have magical powers. Rather than join the rest of the plastic menagerie buried in one of the bedroom drawers, I now come home to the eldest two children marching round the lounge, each holding a snake who seem to be chatting to each other about their latest adventure. I am half convinced that this new snake may have found a way to possess my children into being a surrogate pair of legs, and if that’s the case, long may it last! Any creature that inspires the children to create adventures and play nicely together is welcome to stay as long as it likes. In fact, I need to find a way to strap a third snake onto the toddler.

Seedling Tiger Mask - I'm a real sucker for the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s. If you've ever seen it, you’ll remember a scene where the main characters steal masks from a dime store and I was always struck with the fact that those masks looked like they were made to last. So went my meandering thought process when I first held this mask and realised it was very much spawned from the same philosophy. This mask is actually paper mache, and unless your children have strong necks and odd shaped faces, it will probably do better as an ornament: Ours is currently hanging above a bed looking artistic, although I am counting down the day until one of the children decides to use it for target practice. 

Alive Foods Banana Frooze Balls - These are amazing. Not just amazing-for-healthy-food, but flat out ah-mezzin. There were five balls in the bag so naturally this was pudding one day and while this seemed like an amazing idea at the time, I slightly underestimated the sheer volume of woe that would come crashing down around me when the children realised they were all gone. If you ever get the chance to buy these be warned, one is never enough.

You can read my previous reviews here and here.

And you can receive 20% off your first months pack by using coupon code: MUNCHLOVE

I was sent a Little Ones pack from My Care Pack free to review. The opinions expressed are my own, in all their glory. I shouldn't have to tell you that, clearly nobody would actually pay me to express views like this.

Tuesday, 10 February 2015 Comments: 0

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Welcome to the Frustrating Fives

Welcome to the Frustrating Fives

Parenting Alfie has not been easy recently.

More often than not I end the day on the sofa, mulling over the words I have spoken, second guessing the decisions I have made and usually finding them wanting. These are days where I have risked waking my son by creeping into his bedroom to smoothe his hair, kiss his cheek and whisper that I love him.

These are the words I say, what I mean is "I'm sorry, I failed you, I should have been more patient, I should have dealt with things differently. Can we start again? Can I try to do better?"

I'm frustrated with him; frustrated that my caring, gentle soul has been possessed by this spirit that makes him aim a flying kick to his sisters just for having the temerity to be in his way. He laughs it off, and runs away and my blood boils while I scoop up a tearful mess of daughter, drying her eyes and trying to make things right.

We aren't alone. Some people think five might just be the hardest age of all but that is cold comfort. Everyone hits a stage where, if they're honest, they wish that they had stuck with the puppy rather than choosing to subdivide. Everyone has ages, and behaviours and times where they have no choice but to scream into a pillow.

There is nothing I can do to change how long this will last, or to curb the brutality that rocks Alfie and everyone around him: The choice I have to make is how we come out of the other side.

When I want to scream after him, I choose to whisper. When I want to lash out, instead I choose to hold him close. When my instinct is to punish, instead I will explain, over and over until the tears of frustration roll down my face.

I choose these things so that we will come out of this phase connected because the alternative is a chasm of regret and reproach. 

The alternative is too painful to contemplate.

Monday, 2 February 2015 Comments: 2

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