yey welcome Una

yey welcome Una

Today

Come say Hi to us down the subway by blockbusters, its out of the rain and there is food music and hopefully a party atmosphere and of cause stunning artwork!

Christmas open houses

Come and support Una, Denise, Clare, Wendy, Gillian and Val in this open house exhibition. I'm sure they'll have cake if Gillian has anything to do with it.

Demonstration Day

I really enjoyed being part of the demonstration day at the museum yesterday. It wasn't half as scary as I thought and what a stroke of luck it coincided with Paul Cox's private view (lovely wine!). Hopefully some of the people we spoke to will join us at our meetings.

Yay!

Welcome Audree!

Senegal by Audree Lee

SENEGAL

Imagine me, a staid and respectable English grandmother, trudging through the sand of a desert island, batting away mosquitos and carrying my precious art materials in a brown-paper carrier bag. African women, cooking or washing in the courtyards of mud huts, wave a cheerful hello as our group passes. We stop in front of a two-roomed house made of concrete. Only the relatively wealthy live in concrete here.

"Nangadeff!"

"Assalam alicum"

"Malicum assalam"

With these traditional Wolof greetings I shake the hand of Papa Ndiaye, the Island Chief, whose portrait I am about to paint in pastels. Little black children have appeared from nowhere. Now they cluster round, dotting the sand with colour and chattering excitedly. Wives in splendid traditional costume stand by in numerical order, surveying the scene with a mixture of dignity and amusement. From the Chief's shady home is carried, of all things, a fifties armchair (the sort sold for ten pounds in the Walworth Road) and enthroned thereon he composes his inscrutable leathery features for my attention. All is wonder, suppressed giggles, and hushed expectancy. I pick up a crayon, move into a zone where only one thing exists, and begin.

This was the supreme experience of my latest adventure, a trip to St Louis in Senegal, West Africa. Last year I completed the three years of a degree in Related Arts at Chichester Institute (who said life begins at forty? It's even better twenty years further on) and when a graduate installation artist and colleague of mine, Lindsey Green, invited me to join a group of artists from this country taking part in an exchange scheme, I jumped at the chance. Life was handing me the opportunity to travel I had always wanted, like a gift on a plate. Lindsey, myself, and Marguerite Gimlinge (a landscape artist from Littlehampton) were joined in Paris by an extraordinary couple, Diane and Heiner Theissen.

Diane, spiritually a child of the sixties, into art dredged up from the unconscious and the deeper meanings of all things, is a delightful fiftyish bubble of fun and an entrepreneur. She initiated the scheme to get artists from this country to exchange ideas and opportunities with artists in Senegal; a mix of altruism and self-interest, since she believes there are more opportunities for artists to sell work in Senegal than over here. She has completed a residency at the St Louis Museum and has established strong links there. Lindsey had agreed to take over the scheme, and took out with her a list of English artists who are interested in the idea. Heiner, Diane's husband, is a retired university lecturer who is seeking funding for an innovative water conservation project and ideas for using solar-powered energy. Three young graduate civil engineers, employed to assist him, accompanied the group. We met the final member of our party, Robbie Brown, a young New Zealander, in St Louis. He was coming to the end of a three- month residency on the desert island during which his task had been to assess the needs of the natives, and to weave this into his university dissertation. He had earned much admiration for his mastery of the Wolof language, the African tongue spoken by the natives, who did not all speak the more universal French. He told me he had learned the language chiefly from a young girl on the island, into whose family he was welcomed for the course of his stay, and who (together with every other eligible female) had made no secret of her willingness to become his wife!

The island (more accurately an asthmus) of Bopp Thior at the mouth of the Senegal River is twenty minutes away from St Louis by the only means of transport, the native pirogue. On a calm day it is heaven to be wafted there by a canvas sail and a handsome Arab sailor. In more choppy seas the sudden cut-out of the engine, necessitating a petrol refill from a plastic container, can cause momentary alarm and a thorough soaking. There is no landing jetty and its few visitors (it is not a tourist venue) are obliged to wade ashore, shoes in hand. The rewards are immense: a three mile circumference of idyllic sandy beaches, shady palm trees, picturesque scenes of African village life and an ambience of peace that is palpable. In the Senegal winter temperatures settle comfortably around the mid-seventies, and there is nearly always a cool breeze off the Sahara. Nature appears to be entirely benign, and it is an effort to bear in mind that crocodiles wallow only twenty miles down river, that the enormous burrow I saw in a sandy hillock must have been made by something considerably larger than the average cat, or that the prickly pear you would love to eat would certainly impale you with many thorns.

Since the recent construction of a dam, the Senegal River has become increasingly saline. The natives have to pay for drinking water (and many other necessary commodities) which they transport by pirogue from St Louis. The water on the island is brackish and salt, hardly fit even to water the few miserable vegetables that are grown. Heiner and Diane are the only Europeans privileged to own a small plot of land there. They hope to build a dwelling, so their interest in water and energy is mutually advantageous to themselves and the natives. Heiner has to rely on native labour, and is engaged in establishing a relationship of co-operation and respect with Papa Ndiaye It was to help cement this that he asked me to do the portraits. I was only too happy! What an exotic and unforgettable experience!

When the portrait was finished I visited the market in St Louis in search of a frame. Guided by Iba, a St Louis artist and school-teacher, I wove through its kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and smells until we came across a biblical scene: a carpenter wrinkled with sun and age, using with tremendous skill tools that had hardly changed in a thousand years. A wiry child of about ten (probably a grandson) fetched and carried for him, a very old man (probably his father) feebly swept up sawdust in between bouts of Islamic prayer. The frame was made on the spot for four English pounds. During this procedure a command was rattled out in Wolof, and from nowhere two women appeared bearing an enormous portrait, painted in oils and in photographic style, by Iba. It was of the carpenter, who turned out to be Iba's uncle. After being duly admired, it was rushed back to its place in the carpenter's house, and I was left with the slightly uncomfortable feeling that my portrait had been upstaged! There was no upstaging, however, when we presented it to Papa Ndiaye on the island.

The presentation, without any planning, turned into an official occasion. Islanders turned up from everywhere, speeches were made, cameras handed round and photographs taken this way and that. Papa Ndiaye was transparent in his delight. I heard from Heiner later that the portrait was an object of wonder for miles around. The chief's many relatives in Mauritania had all made a special visit to see it and had wanted to take it back with them! It was suggested that I do more portraits, perhaps the whole island, but eventually I did only one more, that of Ndete, the first and most important wife of the Island chief. When I ordered the frame for this second portrait (from the same framer) it turned out to be, due to my imprecise instructions, six inches too big. What should I do? I had eschewed the suggestion of bringing the portraits back to England and sending out photocopies. I wanted to give the originals. I decided to make a copy freehand on a larger sheet of pastel paper, and frame that. This has left me with the uneasy feeling that I somehow cheated Ndete. The real Ndete was brought back to England, only her copy hangs on her wall. The reception of this portrait, however, was even more gratifying than the first. We arrived on the island and placed it in the hands of Papa Ndiaye. I heard him breathe "Ndete!" He held it at arm's length and stared raptly for several minutes. I felt apprehensive. I could deduce nothing from his inscrutable features. Then Heiner nudged me. "Look!" he whispered. "There are tears in his eyes". Sure enough, two unmistakable tears were coursing down those leathery cheeks.

People have sometimes criticized me for giving my work away, but I would rather have given those portraits as a gift than have them hanging in any art gallery in the world. Those tears were my reward, a moment of true felicity.

Artists who have to earn their living at their work cannot afford this kind of indulgence, of course. There are no job enterprise schemes or free handouts for anyone, let alone artists, in Senegal. People struggle to make a living from a land that is little more than desert, where there are perpetual cuts in the water and electricity supplies. Everywhere there are people selling whatever they can, a few straggly vegetables, a basket of fish, a roll of batik-dyed cloth, but many have to resort to begging. I was privileged to be able to help a little, but I have come home, like so many others, haunted by the memory of those to whom I did not give; the man without legs in a wheelchair, the old woman jabbering away at us at the top of her voice. Artists utilise anything they can find for their work, any bit of scruffy paper or cardboard, anything that will create colour or line. Time after time we were shown drawings of infinite imagination and, often, great skill, executed on materials that would have been thrown away in this country. It made me question my own values. In my diary, I wrote

My art is like a golden temple

In a land of hunger

It is made of the best paper

And the most expensive paint

Is it a precious offering

Or a blasphemy?

During this time, as well, I began to feel that there was an affinity between what we might call a 'good deed' and a work of art. We had met Cheikh Beye, an aspiring artist who lived in the fishing village, the most impoverished part of St Louis. He had such a sensitive, sad, face that I asked if I could do his portrait. In broken French he explained that the sadness of his expression was because his five year-old son was in St Louis hospital. He placed his fist on his heart and muttered "tristesse". A few days later we heard that the child, who had apparently had some sort of stroke, had been sent home on a drip. The doctors said he should be sent to Dakar hospital, and that they could do no more for him. We really wanted to help this little family. Should we club together and send parent and child off to Dakar Hospital? A long discussion between all of us and Cheikh Beye produced the decision that the child was better off at home, surrounded by a loving family, rather than alone, facing uncertain treatment in the frightening strangeness of Dakar. He had, indeed, begun to improve since leaving St Louis hospital. We were delighted to be able to give Cheikh Beye some money for medicine to help his son, and some art materials. The act of giving these was a moment I shall treasure. His face shone with gratitude, and he kissed us tenderly all round, us European ladies so different from himself. I felt the moment reverberated with the kind of truth that artists try to convey through conceptual art. Again, I wrote in my diary

A whole week's pension thrust into a tramp's tin

Conjures shape and form and colour

Casts a Rembrandt glow upon the pavement

Vibrates his cardboard box with revolution

Of a split cow in formaldehyde,

And hones the spirit, as does my artist effort,

On the hurting edge of beauty

Our trip was a living illustration of how much more blessed it is to give than to receive. Marguerite, a grandmother like myself, had already explored the Gambia and knew how useful it was to travel with a collection of things to give away, pens and notebooks for the children, clothing and toiletries for the women; a plastic handbag from Oxfam, given to Ndete, produced a volley of requests for more! Suddenly all our belongings assumed a new value. The ragged children begging in the streets were overjoyed at our cast-off T-shirts. It was a pleasure, too, to help Marguerite collect all our edible rubbish and feed the half-starved goats that roam the sandy streets.

Lindsey's heart was captivated by the children. She has a gift for communicating with them without words. In particular, she would like to go back and do something for the tale-boys, and is hoping to find a way of raising funds to do this.

There are no orphanages in Senegal, and when parents die or can't afford to feed their children, they are sometimes sold to a Malibou. A Malibou is a religious man who will treat his group of boys as kindly as he sees fit. They are often beaten if they don't bring back the required amount of money at the end of the day's begging. A tale-boy will be 'adopted' by an African family, who will try to help him with gifts of food or clothing. We opened the door of our rented house in St Louis one day to find a tale-boy in a dead sleep on our doorstep. He was called Samba, and he told us he had been sold. God knows what that does to a child. I only saw him cry once, when we gave him a white, soft, new night-shirt. But the children of the families we were privileged to visit in St Louis, even those of the poorest fishermen, were invariably well-fed, secure and well behaved, helping responsibly with the domestic duties of the women. It was rare to hear a child cry, or an adult raise their voice.

We were in St Louis during Korite, the festival marking the end of Ramadan, and this also coincided with the finish of the Paris-Dakar motor rally. There was an influx of visitors, strangers from Dakar, and Diane remarked that there was an uncharacteristic frisson of something like danger in the air. There was much noise at night from motorbikes, revellers, and the local Casino. All this in competition with the voice that echoed from the street all night chanting the Koran, and the wailing from the Mosque. Tim, one of our young men, slipped out at eleven o'clock at night for a smoke, and was robbed at knife-point by six men. They threw back to him his passport and his house-keys. We watched Tim for signs of post-traumatic stress syndrome in vain; he remained apparently unfazed by the event, which he said happened too quickly to frighten him. At the local police station, where a prisoner could be seen languishing behind bars like a villain in a gaol in a wild-west movie, all was apology and concern. We were given our own private plain-clothes guard, and after a few nights of checking the locks we began to feel quite safe again. Everyone who heard about this incident, black and white alike, avowed that it could not have been carried out by people from St Louis, where such crimes were unheard of. Dakar is a different kettle of fish!

Islam has become the majority religion (often grafted on to old Wolof beliefs and superstitions) and religious practice is woven into the fabric of daily life. When we visited the home of Babaca, an artist and head of a distinguished and well-to-do family, we discovered that his symbolic paintings all held deeply spiritual meanings, all reverent towards the Koran and Islam. Twice during our visit he stopped to ritually wash and pray. Sitting on hearthrugs on the floor of his concrete studio, we were invited to share a communal dish of Tiboudienne (the delicious national meal of highly spiced fish and vegetables) while his children and grandchildren played happily in the sandy courtyard outside. The wife, or wives, who served this meal smiled shyly but were not expected to eat it with us. A family friend turned up, and a son who was a civil engineer working in Dakar, with his exotic and beautiful wife and baby. Once again the litany of traditional and gracious Wolof greetings were exchanged. Conversation would have been impossible without Diane's superior command of French, although we all gamely did our best. We were served bissa, one of the many Senegalese fruit juices, and cups of overpoweringly strong and sweet herbal tea. Coffee was served in sophisticated style, turkish, strong and in tiny cups. These people were rich in comparison with most St Louis families; the daughter-in-law in splendid traditional dress glittered with gold, and her breast-fed little boy sported incongruous European trainers with flashing lights in the heels!

An artist in less happy circumstances was Keita Leblanc, a gifted sculptor. He had a monumental work on permanent view outside St Louis Museum. This well-known Senegalese artist, in comparison to us, lives in dire poverty. One of his major works has been sold by the Senegalese government to the French, and not a penny of that money has been given to him. He is carrying out a one-man campaign for justice.

What can this exchange scheme do for artists so far away in a culture so different from our own? Hopefully there will be a mutual sharing of ideas, perhaps of resources, and friendship. Some of us might even overcome the difficulties of holding shared exhibitions. Time alone will reveal the shape of the future.

The airfare to Senegal varies between about £400 and £800. But once there living is very cheap. Bed and breakfast can be had in a hotel for £6 a night, a delicious and nourishing meal in a local café costs no more than £2.50, and the ubiquitous yellow taxis will take you anywhere in St Louis for 25p! Even the taxi from Dakar to St Louis, a fantastic five -hour trip that nobody should miss, cost only £25 between us.

I have abandoned my anti-malarial medication because of side effects. Now I have a very English streaming cold after three weeks of a congested chest and cough, and I'm off to hospital for a malaria test (Byron died of Malaria, but he could write poetry). I am grateful to be able to walk around without hugging all my wealth to my body, to be free from the threat of mosquitos and unboiled water. I am glad not to have to face Dakar airport again, with its confusion of chattering voices and its blocked toilets. But I shall miss the smiling African officials there, who joked about us looking for husbands, the generous and creative spirit of friendship we found in every African we met, and the reliable, relaxing, African sun. In a continent where so many are starving, I would not reiterate that sop to the tourist conscience, the clichéd idea that happiness is entirely independent of material possessions. Enough to eat is vital, but I have seen for myself that the human spirit can exist in what we would call poverty in a state of amazing grace. Thank you, Senegal.

Demonstration Day

Don't forget our demonstration day is this Saturday at the museum.

Exhibition sales

Good to see some red dots at our exhibition!