JT Burke works the room

On Friday night I decided to pop along to the reception for an art show that’s just arrived in Bristol following exhibitions in California and Barcelona.

Most exhibition preview invites arrive unceremoniously by email, so when the glitzy invite slid through my letterbox and demanded an RSVP, it was clear that this was going to be a night with a different air. Beautiful Again is the work of JT Burke, an American artist with an eye for bling.

JT spends his spare time trawling flea market stalls and junk shops for quirky pieces of costume jewellery, which he then transforms with the use of photography, Photoshop and a bit of magic into fantastical works of art.

So I knew in advance that this would be a starry night. What I wasn’t prepared for was the sheer glamour of the event. By the time I arrived, hordes of gleamingly gorgeous guests were buzzing around the Grant Bradley Gallery, most of the females bedecked in glittering frocks that were only out-dazzled but the artwork itself.

Waitresses circled the room with canapés (feta cube speared to an olive, anyone?), while photographers from the local press snapped the mingling crowd.

JT Burke has also perfected his public persona into an art form, dressing always in a black shirt and sharp trilby hat to ensure he’s instantly recognisable. His European agent, Richard Scarry, was working the room just as ferociously - this was a party to be viewed at, as much as to view the art.

And the art itself? Seductive in its audacity, ribbons of gems glitter around bejewelled ducks, horses, bees and other critters that were presumably once brooches. Former clip-on diamonté earrings rival glimmering enamelled blooms in landscapes that could have dreamt up by Elton John. Even the frames are ornate and curly.

It’s all eye-catching and utterly shamelessly OTT. I just have trouble envisioning the house whose walls could do any of them justice.

© Gary Christenson

As part of the process of revising my YA novel I’ve been reading lots of teen fiction and thoroughly enjoying it. I’ve discovered a common thread that runs through all of them, however, a preoccupation that affects every protagonist, and that’s bullying.

Most are the victims, a few are the persecutors, fewer still give and receive in equal measure. It makes me realise that in every person’s life there’s likely to be some unhappy playground experiences that contribute to making them the adult they become.

For my novel I recently wrote a particularly unpleasant scene told from the point of view of a bully, with the aftermath told from the viewpoint of the recipient. In an odd way it’s going to have to draw them closer together, but I haven’t quite figured out how yet.

But that’s the beauty of fiction. There’s no such thing as mindless cruelty, unless you create it. Instead each and every action has a purpose and consequence.

In real life, bad things do happen to good people, and any kid is vulnerable to being bullied. However talented, beautiful or clever, someone could take those good qualities and turn it against you.

Reading the Metro yesterday, amid of celebratory GCSE result reports I spotted a slim column about the 16-year-old Olympic diver Tom Daley, who achieved five A*s and two As despite his rigorous training schedule. In passing, the story mention that Tom ‘changed schools because of bullying.’ Amazing to think that even Olympians can fall prey to bullies, but naive to think they could be immune to it.

The truth at the core of all this is that bullying is arbitrary and if it happens to you it isn’t because of you, but, sadly, because it’s human nature.

I don’t know what it is about August, but everyone around me seems to be having birthdays. This weekend I have three parties to go to, one tonight, for a friend turning 33, one tomorrow for a five year old, and one on Sunday for my mother-in-law, who’s going to be a grand 65. They seem to be covering almost the whole spectrum of ages, so I’m expecting three very different celebrations.

I absolutely love parties, but some are defintiely better than others. I went to an excellent on a few weeks ago that was launching a new networking venture called Art is Alive. Most networking dos are a bit dull and work-y - with everyone too busy trying to push their business cards at you to actually relax and build up a rapport.

The difference with this one was that it was aimed solely at artists and other creative types - people for whom their work is also their hobby and reason for being. The setting was the very swish Berkeley Square Hotel in Bristol, a hotel so arty it has its own gallery. We were greeted at the door with luscious cocktails and canapes, and spent the evening admiring landscape paintings and listening to the grooves of jazz singer Cathy Jones while chatting with eccentric peeps who didn’t even own business cards.

Later a folk singer called Hawthorn took to the stage, a set about singing and recording her own voice so she could provide her own improvised backing vocals - like a sort of audio performance art.

So that was a great night out, but why?

Partly it was the atmospheric ambiance, aided by the decor, lighting and music. Secondly it was the interesting conversation - idea-fuel that left my brain dancing in a variety of directions. Thirdly, it was the general sense of possibilities. Everyone there had something to contribute to the local creative scene. And the drinks amd snacks certainly kept everyone happy.

The next ArtisAlive party will be on September 1st at the Berkeley Square Hotel again, and I defintiely plan to be there.

But for tonight and the next two days I’ll be enjoying parties that will hopefully each bring something fresh, fun and fizzy to the table. Personally I have high hopes for the five-year-old’s celebration. No one knows how to enjoy themselves quite like a kid does.

I appear to have conditioned myself to be completely dependent on my mobile phone. This time last week I had an ancient mobile, by which I mean I’ve had it for five years or so. As the battery slowly lost its ability to charge, I replaced it, and then got a new  battery charger, but last Thursday night I discovered the charge point on the phone is actually dying, dying, dead.

I was staying at Future Inns Cabot Circus that night, courtesy of Destination Bristol, and my first thought was to ask my hubla to bring me one of his old phones that he habitually holds onto. But then I found that the ‘Call in case of emergency’ number’ was wrong (out by just one digit, it turned out. Note to self, always check the emergency number I carry is correct!)

So I couldn’t access my contacts, which meant I couldn’t access my hubla!

The fear that shot into my heart was utterly irrational. When I travel abroad I rarely have a phone with me and I manage just fine. But somehow within my own city I feel the need to be constantly contactable.

I survived that day without a phone, but when my hubla presented me with a new one that evening, a rush of relief flooded through me. We all have our weaknesses and addictions – turns out mine is communication, in all its forms.

Today I embark on an exciting press trip - to Bristol. I’m signed up to various mailing lists for freelance journalists and travel writers, and a short while an invitation popped up to spend three days getting to know the highlights of Bristol. How could I refuse?

What could be better than being shown your own city by the people who’s job it is to draw in tourists from all over the world? We have a packed itinerary of tours, boat rides and visits to attractions. Quite frankly, I can’t wait!

I’ll report back next week to let you know what I’ve discovered.

Just one nook in Goldbrick House

Since my Thursday night writing class ended, I’ve been keen to maintain the connections I made there. Bristol is a creative city packed with creative people, but rarely do I meet aspiring authors in such concentrated groups as the one that made up that course.

So a spin-off group has begun meeting once a week or so to read each others’ work and give feedback. The location we’ve picked for this is Goldbrick House, a wonderful, sprawling cafe/restaurant/bar in town.

It’s the kind of place with hidden nooks and corners aplenty, so while other customers are braying with laughter and knocking back cocktails, we can sit and talk and read our work aloud without attracting too much attention.

Feedback isn’t always easy to take, but it’s always welcome, and so far, always useful. I took my first chapter in last week, revised from when i read it out at the Thursday night class, and received some excellent comments on what worked, and what didn’t.

I feel like we’re shadowing CS Lewis and Tolkein at the Eagle and Child in Oxford. Who knows, maybe one day people will talked about our little writing group in similar awed tones!

Old Vic seagulls

One of my favourite events of the year is Bristol’s Harbour Festival, when the city centre is taken over by open air music, drama, dance and random acts of creativity. The harbour heaves with bunting-bedecked boats and stalls sprout up along every flat surface.

The highlights this year were the Saturday gigs by the Moscow Drug Club and Ska Cubano, which had everyone wiggling around Queens Square; dancing by the Dark Angels, and the surreal dramatic performance fallen by Bristol Old Vic’s Young Company - I’ll never look at seagulls the same way again!

At one point we turned a corner and came across a group of people dancing the tango. We explored a temporary eco-garden set up in one small area of the Amphitheatre. We listened to bird song piped from old fashioned gramophones across fake grass courtesy of a cider company, and we met a man called Mark Bywater who intends to run 5.5 marathons in six days in aid of The Huntington’s Disease Association.

We watched a cookery demonstration, bought French apricots and cheeses, signed a petition to prevent Canadian forests being destroyed by the search for oil, and sampled some of the West Country’s finest ice creams at La Cremeria above Cascade Steps.

And then we crawled home, exhausted. The city council reputedly spends more than £4m on the Harbour Fest each year, drawing massive crowds and revenue to our local businesses. If even part of my council tax goes towards that, I’m happy.

Boats and bunting

My month of freedom is over before it even began. That’s the thing with being a freelance writer. Sometimes there seems to be nothing but time - luxurious, yes, but scary when you consider that lots of time equals, inevitably, no money.

I’d budgeted to have August off to focus on editing my novel and focusing on EssentialWriters.com. But then the magazine publishing company I’m freelancing for from the end of the month asked if I was free to do a couple of days at the end of July.

Sounded good to me – it would be a chance to see a few familiar faces and remind myself how those particular pubications work before settling in to my longer contract.

But then my month of freedom evaporated before my eyes. As soon as I arrived at the office they said they’d like me to come in for the whole of August too, apart from the occasional day.

It’s the occasional day that made me agree. Essentially I’ll be spending four days a week subbing and writing for this company, which, joy of joys, leaves me with three days of freedom, fiction-writing and maintaining EssentialWriters.com.

Not as lovely as having seven days a week of this, admittedly, but the benefits of a regular income are definitely not to be overlooked.

So that’s me, from now till December: in-house freelancing and squeezing in as much time to imagine and write my own stuff as possible. You know what? It might just work.

Roof repairs at a Nat Trust stately home

I’m planning to spend most of the next month working on my YA novel, or rather, revising it utterly. The story’s all there, but the structure’s wobbly at times and I need to strengthen some of the hooks.

I’ve never built a house, but I imagine the main issues are quite similar. The foundations need to be sound, and there mustn’t be any chinks or leaks, plus I need to remember to include plenty of doors and windows so things keep moving, but so many that the whole thing loses its structural integrity and collapses in on itself.

One of the key things I’m doing to hopefully address some of the problems is streamlining the points of view. So instead of having my main protagonist, Anna, plus her diary, plus four other viewpoints, it’s now told entirely from her point of view, apart from several from one other major character, Letty, who is also a teenager.

The weird thing is that while Letty seems to be a strong character in her own right, she hasn’t yet found her voice, or rather, I haven’t yet found her voice, when writing in her POV. It’s as though her facade is stronger that her inner self. Which is apt in a way as she is all bravado on the surface, but much more scared underneath.

So tomorrow I think I’m going to have to leave Anna to her own devices and spend some quality time with Letty, getting to know what makes her tick and how she thinks so I can translate that on to the page. Just hope Anna doesn’t burn the house down while I’m not paying attention.

But the

© Jorge Nassauer

Every summer across the UK you’ll see it happening: reams of lit lovers armed with folding chairs, waterproofs and the most elaborate picnics crossing parks and fields to reach outdoor open air theatres.

You’d think it would be asking for trouble. Our British weather is temperamental at best, and usually just the sight of a brightly coloured picnic rug or the glint of some barbecue tongs is enough to excite the storm cloud Gods into shedding their loads.

We were lucky last night though. Joining the Shakespeare-loving hordes on the croquet lawn of Tyntesfield (a stately home renovation-in-progress), we bundled up in jumpers, hats and, in my case, mittens, and settled back to watch the story of The Tempest unfold.

With the great house looming beyond in its covering of scaffolding and plastic wrapping, and the countryside gaining texture and character as the shadows spread, we watched as the dukes of Milan and Naples plus their entourages were shipwrecked on the island where Prospero and his daughter Miranda had washed ashore years before.

Magic, alcohol, lust and guilt swirled together to present an intoxicating tale that had us giggling in our folding chairs, provoking moos from the neighbouring field.

A simple wooden set with trapdoors and a gallery for nimble Ariel to climb to created the sense of the whole island, while just seven players from the Lord Chamerlain’s Men performed every role. We particularly liked Miranda, played with a delicate femininity by the same actor who portrayed her betraying uncle.

Shakespeare’s plays are wonderfully suited to the outdoors. Sitting surrounded by trees and plants that whispered in the breeze and gradually released their nighttime fragrances made it easy to understand our ancestors beliefs in mysterious wilderness sprites that toy with human beings so adeptly.

In playwriting you’re often told to keep actors’ lines short and snappy, and it was fascinating to watch how a master like Shakespeare had broken these rules, but with such skill. He weaves magic with his words, layering scene on scene with each character fully embodied however little time they spend on stage.

But from an audience-members point of view one of his greatest talents is the leeway he allows the director, so that each production is a fresh interpretation, breathing new life into the old, resonant lines time and again.