Space

In my world, the Art World that is, the area outside and around the subject is known as negative space.

The Negative Space.

Today though in the present lockdown, the space around us.

A Positive Space, a safe space, a space that is best occupied in your own four walls.

With the Covid 19 Pandemic we have become acutely aware of what we normally take for granted,

Space.

The space that we now coin as social distancing, the space that we occupy without loved ones and friends,

the alien spaces of empty supermarkets bereft of simple daily needs like toilet rolls and hand cleanser,

and the time space as our work is impeded and new ways to while the boredom are employed, like reading, walking, gardening.

This is a new, positive space, where we have buried ourselves into a strange hibernation and await Boris’s all clear. And then we can spread our wings again, regain our liberty, and return to normal lives.

But will we?

What changes will there be, socially, physically?

Will we have learnt anything about what we truly value, our health our heroes our environment, our friends and family?

What are our real needs?

Not so long ago, only 4 years, there was another crisis that both shocked and impacted the world. For most of us we were voyeurs, for some, it was a mild irritation on their daily lives but only the victims could possibly understand what this crisis felt like. I am of course talking about the Syrian refugees. Ordinary people, barbers, doctors, tradesman, builders, wives, children, husbands, grandparents who had ordinary homes and ordinary existences, fleeing for their lives, fleeing from everything they knew and loved, risking everything because it was too risky to stay.

Suddenly safe cities swelled in size. The infrastructure for such huge quantities of people, just wasn’t there. Calais, probably the most infamous of all the refugee camps, had over 8000 asylum seekers, meaning that 1 in 10 of Calais population were refugees. Space, here became non-existent, people, makeshift shelters, refuse, filth, mud. The camp was known as the jungle and social distancing, human dignity and basic selfcare, was more than a challenge. And these were just ordinary people. Just people.

Many women had travelled alone, or with young children, or pregnant. The threat of rape and slavery and child abuse was a genuine threat. But even simple functions that women must manage daily, toileting, washing, menstruating, became a fearful challenge when there was no privacy and no waste system.

Unable to work in Calais, I felt impelled to help in some way.

A quick poster and a few phone calls later, I had, with the glory of the internet put in motion a miniature plan to help some of these women.

I sent out a call to arms,

to women,

to women to help women.

From their places of safety.

From their paces of safety, women were asked to find a sealable bag,

a shopping bag,

a handbag,

or a sports bag

and fill it with necessary things.

Things they deemed necessary as a woman in need

Tampons,

rubber gloves,

knickers, a hairbrush,

a toothbrush,

dry shampoo,

soap

Anything in fact that they thought might make a life more bearable.

In just a few days, my tidy and ordered house became a refugee camp of bags, 100s of them. My space became smaller. It was chaotic,

a jungle of colours,

of materials,

of leathers,

of plastics,

of patterns,

bags, big and small.

The spaces within contained a magic gift from one woman to another, a stranger helping another in need.

Within the space of a few short days, the bags almost reached the ceiling.

As usual there were a couple of donators that had missed the point and had delivered no bag but instead 2 boxes of toilet rolls and a large quantity of hand gel, which today is like gold dust in our empty supermarkets.

I had thus far not opened any of the bags, but now felt the need to distribute these simple and basic commodities across the wealth of containers amassed.

I tried to imagine what these women would think as they opened their bag. The little spaces that contained love from afar

A lipstick

Perfume

A pair of handmade socks

Wool and knitting needles

Hair gel,

pens and paper

A poetrybook

A Walkman with music tapes.

One bag contained a letter

another a mobile phone with credit

Some had toys in them

Others, medicine, paracetamol, ibuprofen and plasters.

There were pants, tights, hair clips, sewing implements.

I admit that the thoughtfulness of the contents made me cry.

My nearest and dearest then helped me pack the bags into giant packing boxes.

Each bag was tagged with 2 labels, the first read “Dignity Bag, “ and on its reverse was a short note from the giver to the receiver. The second had a stick woman logo and on the reverse, it read, “Only for Women.” We packed the land rover and trailer and delivered them to a warehouse, where we said goodbye to them. I can only hope that the shipment reached Calais, that the bags reached the women’s safe house in the jungle and that a few lucky women received their bag of dignity.

I wander now what has happened to those women? The women who received a gift from a stranger?

Have they left Calais?

Do they feel safe, especially now under this new pandemic?

Have they got their own space with four walls to make them feel safe

Do they still have their bags?