4 Things Social Care Professionals can learn from Banksy’s Self-Destructing Artwork

4 Things Social Care Professionals can learn from Banksy’s Self-Destructing Artwork

It appears that Banksy’s art work, much like the heart-shaped balloon floating off into the horizon, is increasingly out of reach. The small hands of the nameless girl now seem to represent the longings of the wealthy who, despite their monetary power, were unable to grasp that which they desired.

Now in a state of disrepair, his masterpiece was half-destroyed by a shredder installed at the bottom of the frame just seconds after it was sold for £1m, in one of the biggest plot-twists the art world has ever seen.

For decades, art has increasingly become more and more inaccessible for the many, being stored in cold, marble galleries or exchanged for wild sums of money that most normal people couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

Banksy’s journey began on the streets, free from the obstacles of museum fees, academia and wealth. His art was cost-free and accessible to all.  In fact, some would pay not to view his art work, which was once seen as colourful controversy, a nuisance to be cleaned away by local councils. Despite grassroot beginnings, Banksy’s artwork somehow came in to the periphery of the very elite he wished to decry. It seemed sort of weirdly incongruous to see the girl with the red balloon placed in a golden frame, ready to be sold to the highest echelons of artistic society.

As a profession, there is much to be garnered from Banksy’s stunt.

1. Be authentic

Under usual circumstances, I wouldn’t encourage using shredders out of the context of, well, shredding…. However, what Banksy did literally shook the foundations of the art world – and the heart of it all, he was being himself. His rebellious, elusive self.

Carl Rodger’s speaks eloquently about the importance of ‘congruence’ in therapeutic relationships. For those who aren’t familiar, that’s a fancy term used to describe being yourself:

‘It means avoiding the temptation to present a facade or hide behind a mask of professionalism’ (Rogers, 1966).

Bring your creativity, quirkiness and imperfections into the room – allow yourself to be human.  It’s far better than confirming to the grey humdrum. In doing so, you will give service users the permission to be themselves.

2. No one else can determine your value

You can’t really put a price on art; from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel Ceiling to heavily worded graffiti you might come across at your local tube station, human creativity breaks the bounds of bonds and bitcoin.  Though we do not know this intentions, it is possible that Banksy was willing to slash the value of his masterpiece through his act of destruction (although art critics have differing opinions (Loughery, 2018)).

It is fair to say that social care isn’t the most lucrative of careers, and nobody enters into the profession to get rick quick. It is easy to feel defined by stagnant pay scales, unfair media portrayals and recruitment labels. But just remember that to many vulnerable children and families, a moment of empathy or kindness is invaluable.  Your value goes far beyond financial limits.

3. Embrace change

The girl with a balloon has been in a state of inertia since 2002. Banksy, on the other hand, may not recognise himself as an artist 16 years on. Sometimes, it’s good to let go of the old and create something entirely different, rather than clinging on to relics of the past.

In social care, embracing change is crucial to surviving in an ever-evolving field. Try not to turn down training even when your schedule is running into 2045. Glean enthusiasm from students who enter the profession with new ideas, skills and knowledge. Ask service users about what makes them tick, and adapt direct work to their learning styles.

4. Challenge the system

Banksy’s message remains an enigma. However, my small corner of the world, I see the destructing image as a critique on gender inequality in the arts. According to the Guardian in 2017, female artists only account for 4% of the collections at the National Gallery of Scotland’s collection, 20% of the Whitworth Manchester and 35% of Tate Modern (Ellis-Peterson, 2017). Outrageously, in 2018 a woman is still more likely to feature in a gallery as a the subject of a painted nude rather than the painter (Judah, 2018). In shredding his artwork, some may argue that the girl with the balloon was set free from the frame. A more sombre (but no less true interpretation) would see this act as a representation of how girls across the world are ripped to shreds by violent misogyny, FGM, and quotidian discrimination.

In social care, it is easy to become blind to the injustices inherent within the system. Once you become desensitised to inequality around gender, race and sexuality (amongst many issues), it is easy to become complacent. Which, some may argue, is a form of compliance. If we are truly striving toward a more egalitarian future, we simply cannot continue to rely on other people to make that happen. Because, as the saying goes,  If not you, who? If not now, when?  – [Hillel the Elder]

References:

Ellis-Peterson, H. (2017) How the artworld airbrushed female artists from history. [Online] https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/feb/06/how-the-art-world-airbrushed-female-artists-from-history [06/10/2018]

Judah, H. (2018) In 2018 a woman is still more likely to feature as a painted nude rather than as a painter. [Online] https://www.standard.co.uk/lifestyle/esmagazine/in-2018-a-woman-is-still-more-likely-to-feature-in-a-gallery-as-a-painted-nude-than-as-a-painter-a3951406.html [06/10/2018]

Loughery, C. (2018) Banksy artwork ‘doubles in value’ after being shredded in front of stunned buyers at Soetheby’s auction. [Online]. Available from:  https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/art/news/banksy-artwork-doubles-value-self-destruct-shred-girl-with-red-balloon-sothebys-a8571976.html [06/10/2018]

Rogers, C. R. (1966). ‘Client-centered therapy’, in S. Arieti (ed.), American Handbook of Psychiatry (Vol.3, pp.183-200). New York: Basic Books.

9/11 – Processing traumatic events: A childhood perspective

9/11 – Processing traumatic events: A childhood perspective

Words did not suffice then, and they do not suffice now. In the face of unfathomable grief, what is there to say? Sincere condolences, no matter how heartfelt, ring empty. We spend all of our lives talking, we should be connoisseurs; yet there are times when words fail us absolutely. As a child, I turned to the quiet comfort of drawing to process the events which occurred on the morning of 9/11, which left the world speechless.

When the news of 9/11 reached me as an eight year old girl, I found myself speechless as I tried to process something which was far beyond my understanding. Although not personally impacted by grief, I understood, at some level, that our world would cease to be the same. My childhood faculties were not developed enough to grasp the implications of this change, though I was not wrong; the shockwaves of 9/11 continue to ricochet across the globe. The death toll far exceeds the original 2,997. Families of different faiths, cultures, and tongues are united in grief.

I remember walking home from school on a crisp autumn afternoon, arm in arm with my nana on the afternoon of the 11th. I heard lengthy descriptions of the attack from the adults. I had nothing to say – I couldn’t conjure up any sounds. A confident, blunt-fringed girl in the year below me also had little to say (and this, I remember clearly, was out of character). In response to what her mother was telling us, she only had two words ‘You’re lying. You’re lying’. I imagine that she was feeling something a kin to disbelief – an emotion which will have been shared the world over. A feeling which, later that evening as I stood in the chip shop viewing the images on a tiny TV screen in the corner, I could relate to. Is this really our world?

Having nothing to say, however, was not the same as having nothing to express. Later that evening, huddled up with my family in the top front bedroom of the house, I found myself drawing. Rectangles upon rectangles upon rectangles. Jagged lines, where I hadn’t used a ruler, traced the tower buildings. White planes with uneven wings. Fire, red and yellow and orange. I didn’t know why I was drawing. I did know that I had to get it out of my head. To transfer the thoughts and the images, until that point locked away in my mind, onto something tangible, like paper. I remember feeling a strange sense of pride, as though I’d somehow captured the event. Acknowledged it. It was an average drawing for an eight year old; I was the last person in my class to be granted a ‘pen license’, and so I’d drawn it in pencil. Lines and shapes weren’t my forte, but I liked colour. There were no words on the paper.

The following day, I brought the drawing into school. I turned to my on-and-off best friend at the time, who I am still friends with to this day. She asked my ‘Why did you draw that?’. I thought about it, and responded, coyly ‘To remember it’. What she then said unnerved me ‘Isn’t it something we should try to forget?’. In that moment I was laced with shame and confusion. I knew, at some level, that preserving the horrors of that day were important. Though I couldn’t quite reason why. I know, now, that facing up to historical pain and injustice is essential. There is much to learn. There is much to question. There is much more to grieve – tasks which will not be completed in my lifetime.

When I thought about this drawing, some years later, it all felt a bit grotesque. Was I that kid in the horror film who drew disturbing images? Was I traumatised? Shouldn’t children focus on drawing cars and kittens? Training to be a social worker some years later, I began to reframe my thinking. Expression, in any creative form, is crucial. As human beings, we have a basic need to make meaning and sense out of our experiences – a phenomena which can be traced back to our days as cave dwellers, where the etchings of handprints (collective art) can be found. This could not be more crucial for children or young people who do not express themselves easily, have low self-esteem, selective autism, Autism or SEN. Emotions are messy, and cannot be confined to words, which are so rigid – a series of sounds and syllables we have inherited. Sometimes there are shades of emotion which don’t even correspond to the words we have in our vocabulary. Art, on the other hand, has such a greater scope for painting the red anger we might feel, the blue sadness or the jade envy. Jagged lines which cut corners can speak of the terrifying speed of change.

 

If you’re a teacher or a social worker struggling to understand the world of a child, I’m not advocating for a world in which crayons and canvases overtake conversation. If conversation if possible. What I would say, however, is to give children to option of expressing their thoughts and feelings visually, if this suits their learning style. This could be achieved through photography, drawing a comic strip, or a Microsoft paint-esque tablet application. Rather than interpreting the picture (for which you would need the expertise of an art therapist), allow the child to get lost in the task. To share what it means should they choose to, or to remain wordless for times where there is nothing left to say. As adults, we often don’t know how to respond either. Sometimes, something as simple as a pad and some pencils can break down the wall of silence. ‘Shoulder to shoulder working’ is also a technique said to be favoured by children with autism, for whom eye contact can be a distraction. Engaged in tactile activities, children are often more likely to respond to questions, where they are necessary.

As we remember the victims of 9/11, words fail yet again. But I know that the voices of those lost will remain forever in the hearts of those whom they touched.

————-

Pierre, R. (2018) Gymtherapy: Developing Emotional Wellbeing and Resilience in Children through the Medium of Movement. London: Routledge

Dormroom makeovers – Décor damsels in distress, or a discourse on the link between housing and wellbeing?

Earlier in the week, there was a flurry of ‘before and after’ dormroom pictures on twitter. At first glance, the whole thread seemed a little vacuous and show-off-ish. Pinterest-worthy posts of middle class makeovers, the masterpieces of home-sick freshers, might not have acquired ‘click bait’ status for many. But who amongst us can negate the link between our environment and our sense of comfort, inner zen, and security? With the quality of housing linked to mental health, physical wellbeing and relationships, maybe it’s time we looked beyond the veneer of the gloss and glitter.

 

I was just shy of my 17th birthday when I was placed into supported housing (or ‘the hostel down central drive’, as it was known locally). Housing 38 residents between the ages of 16-25 the hostel, now a causality of austerity, was a stepping stone to independence for vulnerable young people in the limbo between childhood and adulthood. The 24/7 support I received in this hostel was nothing short of life-changing; social workers and support staff were so dedicated that they often sacrificed Christmas day with their families to enrich the lives of others. The building, however, was a slightly misshapen block, which had the misfortune of being situated in the most dilapidated area of town; nestled between rows of shut-down shops, defaced with graffiti and littered craigslist ads, the scene felt set. The concept of pathetic fallacy had never felt so real. Inside, my tiny bedsit, located to the right of the rubbish disposal chute, didn’t provide much sensory respite. The view of the Irish Sea was marred by the prison-like-bars on the windows. Whilst I was beyond grateful to be accommodated, the bare-white walls and plastic coated mattress, devoid of bedding, did not make for a welcome space. I felt anonymous, with the haunting knowledge that I was one of many passers through.

 

I almost understand, now, why little children scribble on walls. Having a space in which to express your identity and leave your mark seems fundamental to wellbeing. Even the minimalists amongst us would admit that as humans, we are creatures of comfort. On a bad day after work, there is nothing like sneaking up the staircase in my house share (where I live with complete strangers) and curling up in my cosy white pine bed. I look up and I feel comforted by my photographs – snippets of life as I’ve meandered through it. In them, childhood friends and siblings smile back at me from a distant place, artsy postcards and long-faded theatre tickets never fail to capture my attention. A map of South America triggers of a happy familiarity, as I trace the jagged edges between Chile and Peru. Paper thin relics of times past. My fairy lights, which I’ve long outgrown, stand out like tiny stars from the walls I’m not allowed to paint. And I feel, as close as I can, to being at home.

 

The dorm-room makeovers may have been a desparate attempt at painting over the cracks of unhappy home lives, unfulfilled social calendars and poor mental health. Sure, a salmon coloured cushion cover might bring you happiness for approximately 2 minutes, and might get umpteen likes on Instagram, but is there really much longevity in short-term interior design? My argument is a solid yes. All of us deserve the respite of a cosy space to call ours, away from the stresses of our quotidian lives. For those who already face socio-economic disadvantage, coming home to a damp and cluttered flat with no electricity is nothing short of misery. According to the Mental Health charity, Mind, environmental issues such as damp, mould, and dirt can make you physically unwell. In addition, the quality of housing can have a direct impact upon stress, anxiety and depression. Secondary issues, such as quality of sleep and financial management, can also be detrimental to mental health. Many of the survivors of Grenfell tower, after already enduring unimaginable trauma and hardship, were unable to secure safe and stable housing. In a scandal which will linger in the public mind for decades to come, the government was blasted when it came to light that many were not rehoused even a year after the tragedy.

 

In the uncertain world of social work, we can often underestimate the importance of practical housing issues on mental health and wellbeing. Home visits can often feel intrusive, and peering into bedrooms can, as a British nation, make us feel uncomfortable. Next time you stop by, however, ask yourself basic questions – does this person have clean bedding, a space to hang up their clothes, a functioning washing machine? When working with children, particularly those who have been displaced, don’t be afraid to check out the trivial stuff – are there toys/gadgets around that the child can play with? Is there an essence of this child’s personality? And, perhaps most importantly, would you feel comfortable sleeping there?

 

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-43518480
https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/housing/#.W4xA-4-cFdg

 

Gleanings from ‘The Children Act’ film (2018)

‘She’s very high up’, quipped the legal aid, introducing the judge, in all her grandeur, to the hospital receptionist.

It’s almost as if her unspoken power, written in the sharpness of her dress and otherworldly aurora, weren’t enough without being underscored by a little flattery. A short, but glorious, disclaimer.

We, the audience, are told that it is highly unusual for a judge to swoop down from the dizzying heights of the court to visit a child in the hospital. Even a child in between the equinox of life and death.

Of course, what the judge does is noble (if not laced with a little self-interest), but what I lament is not the act itself, rather, the infrequency of it. I am disappointed by the fact that those in power across the country, ranging from judges, councillors, to head teachers, seldom take the time needed to really connect with the children whose futures depend upon them. It seems absurd that all that is known about these children by those who direct their fate is summarised in an inch of font. How can anyone truly know what is best for ‘Child A’ for the next 18 years with such a porous script? With nothing more than a scaffolding-like-chronology to go from, like a curtailed showreel of life’s worst moments, those in authority make pivotal decisions for vulnerable children. How did it come about that such lofty strangers, so sheltered from the reality of life for neglected or traumatised children, were given the go ahead to guide their social, emotional or financial fates? Consequences of which can span the horizon of their lives for decades.

In an act of defiance, however, our protagonist, Mrs Maye, shatters such trends. In meeting Adam face to face, she seeks out his needs, strengths, and essence for herself. In doing so, she sees beyond his prosaic narrative as detailed in court documents. Documents far too esoteric to be accessed by the layman. Coming back down to earth, Mrs Maye embarks on a quest to understand Adam’s world not only from the bird’s eye view of the court, but from ground zero. She does this by simply noticing what makes the boy tick. Nodding to a generations-old guitar, Mrs Maye gestures for Adam to play, and begins to sing along. In doing so, she seems to soften the discordant melody of his life, if only for a short cadence. Her soprano voice permeates the room with a swelling melody which rises and falls, sort of like Adam’s story. Later, when delivering her verdict to his unrelenting family, she brings Adam’s character to life by highlighting not only his predicament, but his newly found passion for the guitar.

The music is as evocative as Adam’s journey, which I won’t spoil for those of you who are yet to see the film. But this isn’t a sponsored tug for you to go out and buy tickets. It’s a gentle call for all of us to learn from the plot, away from the glaring cinematic screen. I’m reaching out to you – the social care boss, the head of department, the family lawyer. No matter your schedule, make strides to find out more about the child. To interact with them if possible. If a mighty power were to make life-altering decisions about your life, wouldn’t you want them to capture a little of who you are before-hand? Because you never know what insight you might discover. The quotidian reality of the child’s lives, (their favourite song, you-tube star or most cherished possession) might speak volumes over what you read about their plaintive situation. You might find not only that ‘The Children Act’, but that they sing, read poetry, or play guitar – and these interests could guide you, to guide them, for life.