Smashing It E-Book

• Herausgeber: The Westbourne Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Working-class artists are hugely under-represented in the arts industries, facing extra challenges from unpaid work to prejudice, though they make up a third of the British population. How can we break this cycle of inequality? Smashing It celebrates the achievements of working-class artists in Britain, from the global takeover of Grime musicians to the literary powerhouses pushing representative narratives, also showcasing their works. Offering guidance and inspiration, leading musicians, playwrights, visual artists, filmmakers and writers share how they overcame obstacles, from the financial to the philosophical, to make it in the arts. An essential read, Smashing It will empower those who will be a part of tomorrow's bigger picture.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Introduction

Sabrina Mahfouz

Ten Crack Commandments

Madani Younis

Making It Happen

Little Rass & Coming in from the Cold

Raymond Antrobus

Life

Resolutions for the Common, Black, Queer, Young Kid (and anyone else who may need it)

Travis Alabanza

Life

Strength Thy Name is a Working-Class Woman

Maxine Peake

Making it Happen

That’s How It Was (an extract)

Maureen Duffy

Art

Diversity vs. Representation

Riz Ahmed

Life

My Rockstars

Hassan Hajjaj

Art

Spun: Writing a Debut Play

Rabiah Hussein

Making it Happen

Stories Not Stats

Kerry Hudson

Life

gutter girls

Joelle Taylor

Art

Playing the Part

Michaela Coel

Making it Happen

Am I Working-Class or Am I Just Black?

Emma Dennis-Edwards

Life

Cohort

Fran Lock

Art

In the Boot of a Car

Chimene Suleyman

Life

Pluripotent

Jenni Fagan

Art

London Underground

Courttia Newland

Life

Lyrics to Light the Way

Wiley

Art

Family Question Time

Omar Hamdi

Life

Dear British Theatre

David Loumgair

Making it Happen

Box Clever

Monsay Whitney

Art

Money Money Money

Bridget Minamore

Life

A Tailor’s Son

Marvell Fayose

Making it Happen

All Eyes on Me

Paul McVeigh

Art

Entry Points

Sabeena Akhtar

Making it Happen

Two Poems

Anthony Anaxagorou

Art

Q&A with a Novelist

Malorie Blackman

Making it Happen

You Wretched Men

Rebecca Strickson

Art

Broken Biscuits

Salena Godden

Life

I Move, I Tell

Aakash Odedra

Art

The Economy of Sisterhood

Lisa Luxx

Making it Happen

Smashing the Class Ceiling

Joelle Taylor

Art

Applying for Arts Funding: A Guide

Sabrina Mahfouz

Making it Happen

INTRODUCTION

Sabrina Mahfouz

Sabrina Mahfouz grew up between London and Cairo. She is a playwright, poet, screenwriter and performer who has recently been elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and is the recipient of the 2018 King’s Alumni Arts & Culture Award for inspiring change in the industry. She has been shortlisted for the Arts Foundation Award for Performance Poetry and has won a Sky Arts Academy Award for Poetry, a Westminster Prize for New Playwrights and a Fringe First Award. Sabrina is also the editor of the anthology The Things I Would Tell You: British Muslim Women Write.

SOCIAL CLASS is a confusing identity marker. Every person I have ever spoken to about it has their own beliefs about how it should be defined. This book came about after I was interviewed by a magazine about a forthcoming project. It was my sixth interview that month, and it struck me that I had once again been asked about the obstacles I faced as a woman forging a career in the arts. Several of the other interviewers had queried what difficulties I had faced in the industry as an ethnic minority (Egyptian/Guyanese). Despite the fact my gender and ethnicity are hugely important to me and my work, I found it odd that nobody had asked me about the difficulties my social class presents, which, when intersected with other factors, has certainly been the biggest obstacle I have faced. It is also a part of my identity that I share with almost every character I have ever written.

When I tweeted words to this effect soon after the interview, I was immediately flooded with responses from other artists expressing the same frustrations. It was overwhelming, and it stirred a level of anger in me that I hadn’t acknowledged before. This is in spite of the fact that I had read various damning reports on working class representation (or the lack of) in the arts. The State of the Nation Report showed that social mobility has been ‘virtually stagnant’ from 2014–2019; the 2018 ‘Panic!’ Report by Create London and Arts Emergency revealed shocking data about the percentage of people working in in arts industries from working class backgrounds: in publishing 12.6%; in film, TV and radio, 12.4%; and in music, performing and visual arts, 18.2%. All of which is hugely under-representative of the population, approximately a third of which is regarded as working-class, according to the report.

Positive action is something I always try to do if I can. That day I announced that I would host free workshops on accessing arts funding. It was something I knew I could do as I have applied and won funding for projects since I first started to write. (I have also worked in the Civil Service and know my way around forms and government-speak.) The next day, 600 people signed up to the first workshop. It made me realise that despite the growing discussion around working-class representation, access to the opportunities that are out there must be improved so that it can be taken up by those who need them the most. In short, working class artists do not feel supported.

After five months of facilitating these workshops, the most frequent message I received from people was, ‘Thank you for showing me what is possible.’ There are few other phrases that make me so emotional. This is the point of our struggles for fairer representation and greater equality: to give each other the freedom to achieve all that we can without being crippled by injustices, institutionalised bias and prejudices. This is what this book is for, to show what is possible and to provide guidance on how to make that possibility a reality.

A number of organisations have been doing incredible work around access to the arts for a long time, such as Arts Emergency, Create London, Open Door and COMMON (whose founder David Loumgair writes his ‘Letter to British Theatre’ in this book). There are an exciting number of projects that showcase working-class writers, with a growing number of literary anthologies (eg. Know Your Place edited by Nathan Connelly and Common People edited by Kit De Waal) and two inaugural working-class writers’ festivals (one founded by Natasha Carthew and planned for 2020); the second, Breakthrough Festival, was founded by writer and contributor to this book, Kerry Hudson, in 2019. My hope is that this book adds to these offerings and encourages new ones because, as Javaad Alipoor wrote in an excellent article for The Guardian, ‘The arts world has turned working-class people into a problem to be solved rather than audience members or artists to be developed’. This absolutely must change, not just for future generations, but for us all, now.

***

In preparing for this book, the one question I asked the contributors to reflect on was, ‘Do you identify as working class?’. In personal, moving, challenging pieces, they have each shared what this means to them, and they also ask you to consider your own definitions. As you will see, these artists, writers, performers and practitioners are up for the discussion. Join them! But, whatever you conclude, this book isn’t here to set boundaries. It is here to:

•Showcase the exceptional art currently being created by some of the most inspiring artists in this country.

•Say to those working-class readers who want to work in the arts but have been made to feel that it’s not for them that IT IS. A creative industry worth having can’t exist without us. These artists are opening doors: stride through and hold them wide for those coming next.

•Remind those in the industry how absolutely essential it is to be investing in working-class artists because – this can’t be said enough – a creative industry worth having cannot exist without us!

•Offer some honest guidance, inspiration and motivation to keep going, to get started, to create the work you need to create from those who have done it and are doing it. Most of us still struggle to keep it all going. The art world is difficult to get a foothold in regardless of who you are – let alone when you have socio-economic barriers blocking your way. Nobody is likely to break through with just a few well-meaning aphorisms. What we need – among other basic essentials like support, talent and tenacity – is the truth.

Writing and editing this book has moved me to reflect on my own experiences in the arts. Getting to where I currently am in my career quite literally brought me to the point of bankruptcy. I am still in the final years of an Insolvency Agreement, the last legally ratified option before bankruptcy. How did I get to this point? There is never just one reason, but the rough outline is that I wrote, produced and paid the vast majority of the costs for my first two Edinburgh Fringe theatre productions (Dry Ice in 2011 and Chef in 2014) myself. I had some crowdfunding money for the first and some organisational funding for the second, but to make sure everyone was paid and to produce them in a way that was true to my vision cost me A LOT. Around £45,000 altogether, over five years. I had a cocktail waitressing night job and various day jobs, and also took on writing jobs during my breaks. It meant the shows were a success. Not financially – because that’s unheard of in fringe theatre – but professionally.

After winning a Fringe First Award for Chef, I was offered commissions that I was genuinely interested in on topics I deeply cared about. I had put honest work out there that had been filtered through no organisation, no theatre – because they hadn’t wanted them, not in the way I had wanted them to be – and I got the love back. And some money. Enough to quit the night job at first and then by 2015 the day job. I was living frugally: no car, shared housing, no shopping except essentials. I had zero savings. The concept of savings has never existed in my life, as working-class people with a love of travel and Moschino will understand. I had no financial cushion from any other area of life, which was fine; hand-to-mouth is how people live, how people I have known have always lived. But then I got pregnant and couldn’t work (write/attend rehearsals/edit/research) as much as I was used to, which was all the time.

Even though I returned to work two weeks after my son was born (excruciatingly exhausting at best, traumatising at worst – for the both of us), I couldn’t make enough money to make ends meet and eventually had to file for insolvency. I accept that I used the money I earned in my various jobs to produce my shows, and it was a privilege to be able to do so, to invest in the career I wanted so desperately. But I say this because, as a working-class woman, I have only got to this point in my career because I was willing to take myself to the point of bankruptcy to get here.

I am not AT ALL endorsing that anybody else do so. Don’t. In fact, it is for this very reason that I have included a guidance section on how to successfully apply for funding at the end of the book. I want to encourage aspiring and working practitioners to look everywhere possible for financial support for your work. It is out there, and it is for you. It is public money, mostly. Public money paid disproportionately by working-class people through taxes and national lottery funding. Never think that it is not for you, or for your stories. I made the mistake initially of believing the funding wasn’t for me. I only approached the theatres I had heard of with my scripts and ideas, and when they turned them down, I thought that was it – finance it myself or give up. Sure, the DIY option is exhilarating if the costs can be kept to an absolute minimum: you have a team in it for the same aims, and people have donated space and resources so that your work can reach the audience you intended. But Arts Council England, Wales and Northern Ireland, as well as other funding bodies, are here for a reason, and they need new artists to apply to ensure they fulfil their remits to provide access to the arts for everyone, not just for a small minority of our society.

It can be daunting to seek funding if you have lived your life undervaluing your work, your story, yourself. It can be intimidating to answer questions made up from a vocabulary that hints at the closed, lofty world of the ‘proper’ arts. Hopefully, the guidance section will help you negotiate this process.

***

Today more than ever, let’s celebrate the genre-shifting, world-changing art being made by working class artists in the UK. Let’s remind ourselves that for every crucial article detailing the depressing lack of working-class representation across the creative industries, we need to celebrate the working-class artists leading the way in their fields, telling their stories the way they need to be told.

Some of these artists feature in this book. Multi-award-winning writers in various mediums such as Malorie Blackman, Maureen Duffy and Michaela Coel offer a glimpse into their struggle to stay true to their vision, to be able to tell the stories they wanted, in the way that they wanted. Leading artists such as acclaimed illustrator Rebecca Strickland and Ted Hughes Award-winning poet Raymond Antrobus treat us to brand-new works that highlight the depth of working-class talent energising the arts right now. Arts leaders such as Madani Younis, Artistic Director of Europe’s largest arts venue, the Southbank Centre, alongside emerging geniuses of multidisciplinary arts, including Travis Alabanza, offer direct, honest advice on how to stay true to yourself while navigating an industry in which you are hugely underrepresented. Their contributions are organised into three categories: the ‘Life’ pieces explore the artist’s relationship to their career and other aspects of their daily reality as a working class person; those in ‘Art’ are striking examples of works in various forms, from poetry to photography, illustration to lyricism; lastly, the pieces in ‘Making It Happen’ show us a way forward.

***

Smashing It is a companion to replace the imposter syndrome; to show that we do belong in the spaces that might, for a million reasons, make us feel otherwise. It is to shout in our own accents a big old thanks those that have opened doors and paved ways and shown us what can be achieved. And they have achieved this in spite of seemingly insurmountable obstacles in a notoriously low-paid and exploitative industry, especially for those like us who don’t have the contacts to make a smooth transition from ‘hopeful’ to ‘professional’. Many non-working-class arts practitioners take for granted subtle influences – such as a family-wide involvement in the arts, university-educated relatives, ease with the vocabulary and phrasing of institutions, and experience in interviews, public speaking and meetings. Of course, many working-class people may have experience of some or all of these. For those who don’t, never forget that you have experience of so many other things which are of equal if not greater value.

Go smash it up.

Smashing It

ART     LIFE     MAKING IT HAPPEN

TEN CRACK COMMANDMENTS

(Ways to protect yourself as a human who identifies as working-class, whilst trying to negotiate arts fuckeries and systematic privilege)

Madani Younis

Madani Younis is the Artistic Director of Europe’s largest arts centre, London’s Southbank Centre. He was previously artistic director and CEO of the Bush Theatre for six critically acclaimed years. During his tenure, he delivered the largest capital project in the theatre’s history, tripling audience capacity, produced work that has toured both nationally and internationally, and delivered the theatre’s first West End transfer in over a decade.

1.Tell them that you come from good stock. Tell them of your history, of the cloth that you are cut from and of the blood that runs through your veins.

2.If they tell you you shouldn’t, you really should.

3.When they tell you that class doesn’t matter, tell them that it has never mattered more.

4.Remind yourself that you are not the first. Take strength and courage from those who have walked this long road before you – before you ever took your first breath.

5.Say to yourself every morning, ‘I need the liberal guilt of the arts as much as I need crack’.

6.Say to yourself every night, ‘I am surrounded by love and I am the hero of my own story’.

7.Always pay it forward.

8.Don’t be fooled when they say, ‘We are all in this together’. They have a different definition of the word ‘we’.

9.Remember that civil disobedience is a compliment to any successful democracy.

10.If they tell you that you can’t, it’s because they never could. It was always meant to be you.

ART     LIFE     MAKING IT HAPPEN

LITTLE RASS

Raymond Antrobus

Raymond Antrobus is a Jamican-British spoken-word poet from Hackney. His collection The Perseverance won the 2019 Ted Hughes Award, was shortlisted for the Jhalak and the Griffin Poetry prizes and was selected as a PBS Winter Choice and a Sunday Times and Guardian Poetry Book of the Year. Antrobus is the recipient of fellowships from Cave Canem, Complete Works 3 and Jerwood Compton. He is one of the world’s first recipients of an MA in Spoken Word Education from Goldsmiths University and the first poet to win the £30,000 Rathbones Folio prize. His other published collections are Shapes & Disfigurements and To Sweeten Bitter.

YO… Here we are, 7,330 days, 10 months and 7 hours since Doo wop (That Thing) entered music history as the first single by a rapper to debut at number 1 on the billboard hot 100. Meaning, it’s been 7,330 days, 10 months, 14 hours and 18 minutes since meeting T- Boy, the boy who made me quit rapping forever, who’d studied the dictionary so closely that he could turn to any page and rhyme the random words with meaning.

T-Boy was a rapper I met on a council estate in Archway. A group of friends, all boys, had introduced us. My rap name was Little Rass. It’s what Dad called me when I annoyed him (yuh lil’rass yuh!). Every one of my public rap performances had to begin with disclaimers – just so you know I’m half black, my Dad is Rasta, so if I say nigger, it’s ok. My rap style was unnecessarily aggressive, as if my voice was in a fight with all the air in the world. Dad never saw me rap, I think he’d be puzzled, think he’d say, ‘calm down and stop dat foolishness yuh lil’rass yuh’.

T-Boy’s rap style was laid back, fluid, flow full of loose-logic wordplay. Compared to him, my raps were literal, neurotic, glorified journal entries about girls that wouldn’t let me touch them. After hearing T-Boy I felt competitive and eager to impress. I knew I couldn’t use my sad, creepy-boy verses; they would reveal my vulnerabilities and if T-Boy turned this into a rap battle, I knew he had a spark that could flame my thin tissue boyhood. I had to come up with something on the spot, still, my verse began with my usual disclaimer, just so you know I’m half black, my Dad’s Rasta …

YO...

LIVING IN HACKNEY / NO ONE CAN JACK ME / I GIVE NIGGAS ACNE / IF THEY TRY TO ATTACK ME…

I wasn’t wearing my hearing aids that day, I only now realise how loudly I must have been shouting. As soon as my breathy verse finished, T-Boy laughed, then other boys standing around the council flat balcony laughed and then I heard people on other floors laughing. The entire block lit in laughter. I stood there nervous. T-Boy started slamming his fist on the wall, unable to catch his breath. I stood inside all that laughter, looking around, not yet sure what it meant.

ART     LIFE     MAKING IT HAPPEN

COMING IN FROM THE COLD

Raymond Antrobus

MYDAD WOULD OFTEN ASK my sister and me if we were going to attend his funeral when he died. He spoke about his death so often that my most frequent nightmares as a child were of this day, burying my father. My Dad was often the one who woke me from those dreams in the morning with his heavy footsteps and the stench of tobacco fuming from his clothes. The relief of opening my eyes and seeing him in the world was always euphoric. He held me often, cooked Ackee and Saltfish, the Ackee soft but not dry, the Saltfish, easily slipping off the bone, the boiled potatoes and rice and peas, steaming from the plate with a dash of West Indian hot sauce. He would watch me eat, wait for me to finish, smile and say, ‘I love you Ray’. These tender moments merge now in my memory of him after he’d been out drinking, returning home with a gravity that made the stairs shiver as he slowly staggered down them. Both my sister and I had witnessed him beat our mother. He would black out and the next day he’d have no memory of the smashed windows, the bruises, the burning milk bottles on our doorstep. When he needed care it was hard to measure how much of myself I could give to him, considering that terror. I was there when I could be, I changed his bed sheets and brought him ice cream, I sat by his hospital bed, I held his hand, I hugged him after he broke down crying when I asked him how he was, I fell asleep in his arms while Brook Breton sang ‘Rainy Night In Georgia’.

How do you dress for your father’s funeral? I’m wearing his bright orange blazer, thick padded shoulders, moth eaten on the inside. I’m sitting in the back seat of the black Volvo next to my mother and sister. ‘In this life / in this life / in this life / in this oh sweet life’, wailed Marley through the iPad on my lap. The sky is white and sealed over by cloud. I ask the car to stop outside the William Hill bookmaker shop where Dad gambled on the horses. The years he spent walking to William Hill, the only other place I would find my father if he wasn’t in his council flat on Laburnum street. I walk into the shop and my father’s friends are there. Ninja is what everyone calls one of them, I don’t know why. He’s a short, bald, black man with a slightly squashed face and thick patches of grey beard that move around his mouth when he talks, most of which is incoherent mumbling because half his teeth are missing. Then there’s Desmond, a slightly taller, lighter skin man in a cream coloured jacket and light brown bowler hat and Barry, a tall, slender black man in a white Puma t-shirt, a smart black blazer, a red baseball cap and a grey goatee. All were standing in front of the TVs. These were the West Indian men Dad sat around the table with, drinking, laughing, and shouting at the horses. If they’d forgotten about the funeral, my bright orange blazer with my Dad’s folded handkerchief in my breast pocket reminded them. ‘Yuh old man funeral today?’ said Ninja, then called the other men over. ‘Dis Seymour’s son’. The men gathered around and shook my hand, ‘him gone, him gone, but him still here’. I look up at the TVs as the gates open and the greyhounds shoot from their cages. I walk to the counter and put down a fiver on a dog. I think even my Dad wouldn’t be surprised that his friends at the bookmaker shop would miss his funeral. I take the betting slip and left my Dad’s friends shouting at the row of screens.

At Manor Park Cemetery some friends and cousins I hadn’t seen in years show up. Everything about them belongs in the past. There is a Jamaican flag over my father’s casket. My sister and I give speeches. That must’ve been awkward for her; she’d stopped talking to Dad the night he showed up at the house drunk and my sister had to defend our mother. She picked up two bricks from the garden and swung them in his face and fractured his jaw. My Dad couldn’t speak for a month without the pain connecting him to that night. My sister was fifteen and was forced to grow up quickly so she could help raise me and support our mother. I think she will always be resentful of that, but her speech was gentle and diligent, she trembled through it. My pain was watching her, the strongest woman I know become a hurt child, once again, keeping her head up for her brother, her mother as well as herself.

I look out over the crowd at my scattered Jamaican relatives, different families sitting in their own sections of the church. My Dad lost contact with many of the families years ago and that distance expressed itself in how far back they were sitting.

‘I have yet to find a Jamaican restaurant that can make Ackee and Saltfish, sweet potato, green banana with rice and peas like my father. He would always give me a spoon to eat with and call me “white bwoy” if I asked for a fork.’

Everyone in the church laughed at that, except the priest who was the whitest man in the world.

‘My father lived to seventy-five. He was a smoker, a drinker and a gambler; my theory of his longevity is his sense of humour. Every joke he made gave him back the three minutes of life he lost to a cigarette. Not all his jokes were even funny. I remember sitting on the train with him at Dalston Kingsland when he said, “Son, did I ever tell you the funny story about the suicidal train driver who drove his train into a station and killed a hundred people? Hee-hee-haha”. I said, “Dad, that’s not funny, why are you laughing?” and he’d say, “what you want me to do, cry?” and he’d laugh again.’ The congregation laughed too. There’s nothing like laughter at a funeral.

After the service everyone walked to the gravesite with the pallbearers, my cousins still keeping their distance. My Dad’s casket lowered. I take out the betting slip and drop it into the earth.

LIFE     ART     MAKING IT HAPPEN

RESOLUTIONS FOR THE COMMON, BLACK, QUEER, YOUNG KID

(AND ANYONE ELSE WHO MAY NEED IT)

Travis Alabanza

Travis Alabanza is a performer, writer and theatre-maker. In the last two years, they have been noted by numerous publications including Artsy, ID Magazine and Mobo Awards as one of the most prominent emerging queer artistic voices. Alabanza was also listed in Out Magazine as an influential queer figure. They have appeared in campaigns with MAC X ASOS and performed across the country and internationally.

Travis Alabanza Burgerz, photography credit Elise Rose

AT THE TIME OF WRITING THIS I’m twenty-three years old. I was going to say, ‘I’m at the young age of twenty-three’, because everyone always places ‘young’ before my age in introductions. I never get to hear just my age, but always a prefix that tells the room a lot about how they should view me, my position and my stance. My feelings about this go through many different phases (well, at least I still look young). The reason my feelings change is because in some ways it’s like, ‘yeah, I’m fucking young, I have so much space to live and compared to those around in my field of work, I’m a baby’. Sometimes I do not get angry because I’m like, ‘yes, I’m twenty-three years old and I’m sat here headlining a festival, or on a panel, or on a residency, or in a meeting, with people double my age and with much lighter skin’, but other times it really angers me and I couldn’t tell you why. I couldn’t tell if it was just my age showing. If it was just my age that was showing in my frustration, and that if I reached an older age, I would look back on this age and see that I was being angry for no reason. But that may take … ages, right? So, I might as well look at the feelings of annoyance I have now, and figure where they come from.

I am certain that these feelings come from doubt. A questioning. A sense of ‘you’re not quite here’, that I feel is often given to people who are young. When I was given the artist residency at the Tate at the age of twenty-one I lied in my application and told them I was older, because I knew they wouldn’t give me the job if they found out my age. My skills, my CV, my ideas and the talent that got me the residency didn’t change, just the number. I can’t count the number of times people have put down my CV, ability or popularity to being ‘just an internet thing,’ as soon as they figure out my age.

People doubting my ability is not new to me. I have always been something they cannot place. A whole thing they cannot understand. And when you go against people’s ideas of who you should be, what an artist should look like, how you should talk, where you should have come from, they work quickly to reinstate that power. As if reminding me that I have social media, or am young, or did not go to art school. It is another way of saying, ‘well done, but this is where the big people sit and talk now’. And this doubt, this projection of what I could or couldn’t be, isn’t just to do with the fact that I’m young. I’m young and common. I’m young, black, common, trans, grew up on an estate, didn’t go to art school and suddenly I’m in your meeting room, I’m your artist in your gallery, taking up space in the media and writing and selling out debut shows. You have to re-shift that power and force your doubt onto me, and I’m going to decide not to take it. I’m done taking it. It’s too heavy to lift.

Look, I’ll be honest – I’m writing this in the forced self-reflection-hangover that the new year and January bring. It’s 8 January 2019 and I haven’t escaped the cycle of reflection. But I realise that I have wasted my young lifetime holding other people’s projections. So often we as poor folk, as outsiders, as ‘others’, are managing other people’s expectations and feelings towards us. I just want to say fuck that. Fuck all of that. Look how much more space we get to keep for ourselves when we don’t hold onto the projections that others make! We have a lot more time to make badass art and have conversations about what we want to talk about. I decided, it being January, to write myself a list of resolutions that I could pin up on my wall, to remind me of this energy I’m holding now. Maybe you can pin it up on your wall too, if it helps.

I’m calling it RESOLUTIONS FOR THE COMMON, BLACK, QUEER, YOUNG KID (and anyone else who may need it).

1. BRAG MORE. Show off. Say what you have done. I mean it. Tell yourself, others, write it down, bring it into the room. There is something the posh kids have learned and that is this inbuilt self-belief and assurance in their voice, in being quick to know themselves and (often over play) their achievements. Now I don’t need us to do that, I don’t want us to fill the rooms with horrible egos that smell like egg & cress M&S sandwiches. But I wish that I had known last year that I’m allowed to have confidence, pride and excitement at my achievements and I/you am/are allowed to tell people about them.

2. STOP APOLOGISING FOR YOURSELF. Wouldn’t it be amazing if we could just accept where we are at, what we bring, and the great aspects of that? So often, it is embedded in our working-class culture in the arts to apologise for taking up space. We say sorry, are polite, are the first to arrive and the last to leave. But honestly, I think we over-apologise. I know I have. Do not apologise for your grammar, dropping your ts, swearing in a meeting. Allow everyone else to thank you for waking them up.

3. KNOW THAT THE VERY THING YOU FEEL SHAME FOR IS THE VERY THING THAT THEY CAN NEVER LEARN. That spark. That thing that makes you different from the posh boys. The thing you are trying to hide, to cover up, to make quieter, is the very thing that will keep the art world alive. So often these posh walls have stolen working-class culture, aesthetic and music to make themselves more relevant. Hunny, you are the relevance! You are the thing! You are the culture! No time for shame – just to clarify – you are the shit! They may have gone to art school but that cannot teach them how to be interesting.

4. REMEMBER WHERE YOU COME FROM, BUT ALSO THE FUTURE OF WHERE YOU WANT TO BE. ‘Remember where you come from’ is a cliché phrase I feel we often hear as ‘people from the block’. But it’s kinda true and also, how can we forget it? Don’t forget, but do not let it pin you down. Share your knowledge, your resources, if a door is opening for you, grab a fucking huge ass council estate bridge and lodge it open for your gang. They may have got to where they are today on selfishness and stingy rules, but that doesn’t mean that we have to. The future is brighter if all the gang are allowed in too, and the gangs you don’t know.

5. REQUEST MORE ART DIRECTORS TO MEET YOU IN THE GREGGS THAT HAVE CAFÉS IN THEM. This one is self-explanatory.