Story Swapping

I live in Sheffield and one of the hardest things for me in this city is that I have very few friends. I work alone in my studio and try to go to art openings, but the Sheffield art crowd seem a hard lot to crack. I was even hoping that working in a warehouse, with a reported 70 other artists (where are they all?) would naturally lead to interactions and friendships. These are few and far between. It is rare to run into someone. Last week I spotted a leaflet for a new group called "Swapping Stories". The description sounded like a writing group. It welcomed all newcomers to Sheffield, along with asylum seekers, and anyone wanting to tell or write stories amongst the group. I went to the first gathering and there was indeed an interesting mix of people. I like interesting mixes because you are guaranteed awkward moments, someone to talk to, someone who will talk to you, someone who will talk AT you, and someone to avoid that winds up endearing themselves to you so much that you eventually seek them out. How can you go wrong when you throw cookies and organic apples in on top of it all? As we went around the circle introducing ourselves it became clear that most of the people were there because they worked with or were interested in refugees or asylum seekers and wanted to help facilitate them into the group. Many of the conversations continually veered back to the topic of why there were no refugees or asylum seekers who showed up. There was a growing feeling in me that the invitation for newcomers to Sheffield was a bit of a filler and not the intended aim of the group. If that is true, that is too bad. I remember my dad's advice when we were growing up: if you have your eyes set on some goal and are working really hard to get towards and some other great opportunity comes along ...take it. You can always go back to your original goal, but the new opportunity might not present itself again.

A Lady Writing, Johannes Vermeer

Here are some of the short writing exercises I did in the group. A Description of Your First Memory including all the Senses. When I scan back to my first memory it must be one of the few I have before any of my sisters are born. I sit on the outside steps of a creaking wooden communal Victorian house on Charles Street. My doll who is clutched in my hands is as big as I am. She is plastic with that sort of thick matted hair that smelled a bit musty. There are adults sitting on the stairs around me, who I will later learn are called hippies and street people. To me they are all the people that live together with me in this big house. The people who concern me most are my dad (who is sitting next to me), my mom (who is standing on the sidewalk with a camera aimed at us), and the old man in the room next to ours who gives me sweet candies that melt into sharp shards on my tongue if I suck them too long. The sun is bright and my mom yells, "smile". I glance up and squint at the bright sun. To make sure everyone is posing appropriately I look at my doll, point my mom out and explain to her that she is being photographed. SNAP! That moment is frozen in my mind and in my childhood photo album. I think I am about two and a half. A Memory of an Event from Childhood (for which I ran out of time) I was 10 years old when Teresa came to live with us. It was explained to me that her parents weren't able to take care of her or her sister. Where is her sister, I asked? With her grandparents. Why can't her parents look after her? Because she was found alone and her parents had taken too many drugs. Why can't she stay with her grandparents too? We don't know. Teresa was 6 years old with blond hair and blue eyes. To make things confusing my 7 year old sister was also named Teresa and had blond hair and blue eyes. We had to call them by their first and middle names. Teresa Lynn was my real sister and Teresa Louise was my temporary sister. The three of us spent our time competing for our youngest sister's giggles and attention: Laura, 3 years old with brown hair and blue eyes who grew to hate being the centre of attention.

Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid, Johannes Vermeer