The Disappearance of Paint Pots and Culture

An article I wrote about the decline in creativity production...

Hearing other students ramble about their GCSE or A Level choices, there seems to be a distinct lack of one crucial colour in the paint pot: creative subjects.

While everyone is taking up maths, further maths, chemistry (and maybe history, if you’re lucky), what is happening to drama, art and music? Are these classrooms virtually empty? Do they even exist? Maybe not.

But, what is creativity and unique thinking? What needs to be established is that creativity isn’t just writing, or drawing or crafting. Well, it can be. But the definition of creativity is ‘the use of imagination or original ideas to create something; inventiveness’ (According to the Oxford Dictionary). Therefore, with creativity shrinking, we are losing the ability to think of new ways around problems, or engage with new perspectives and not just how to write an expressive essay. And so, without creativity, regression is imminent.

In a recent report, the Warwick Commission on the Future of Cultural Values told of how, between 2003 and 2013, there was a ‘50% decrease in GCSE entries for design technology.’ This was also followed by a ‘23% decrease in drama entries’, as well as a further ‘25% decrease’ in other creative subjects, including crafts.

Why are more and more adolescents drifting away from a sector creating 1.5 million jobs and adding £70 billion to the economy?

It portrays that from younger and younger ages, the teachers, the government – heck, even our own parents – are enforcing that ‘art won’t help you in later life!’ or ‘why pick drama when everyone wants maths?’

Well, creative subjects are sought after, according to many employers, highlighted by The Curve Group, whom specialise in finance and business sectors. They concluded that ‘employees with art degrees have developed more quickly in their roles from the start’, compared to people without. Moreover, art-degree potential-employees have been found to have more ‘discipline, confidence and accept criticism’ more readily, which is what every employer wants. Problem solving, time management, commitment, communication and independence are what is demanded by creative subjects and is performed without even being noticed.

However, it all needs to be practiced.

Because, as the take-up of creative subjects diminishes, so does our individual creativity.

In 2010, Kyung Hee Kim, a creative researcher in the College of William and Mary, conducted over 300,000 creativity tests, spanning back to the 1970s. He concluded that since 1990, children have become ‘less able to produce unique and unusual ideas’. And, this is not because the creative ideas pool has simply run dry, but rather we are not nurturing creativity. It is in our nature to be creative (think back to cavemen and their impressionist paintings), but without encouragement, the flowers that grow won’t be nearly as beautiful as what they could have been. And therefore, we tend our saplings to become dull and grey and boring.

And, while some need certain subjects to become the next doctors, dentists and lawyers (or some actually insist on being dull and grey and boring), why are we deterring so many others from doing what they actually love? If creativity is not encouraged in schools, where else will the next artists, writers and designers discover their talents? Or will they simply be told that something ‘more academic’ will be better suited?

It could be argued that creativity can simply find different outlets if it is cauterised in one area. For example, builders are not typically reserved as creative individuals. Yet, they do delve into alternative ways around problems, as well as involving communication and innovation. They are ‘thinking and then producing’ and therefore are creative. Everyone can be. But, this can all be derived from the creativity they were exposed to at school – even if it were until they ceased to be compulsory, such as at the beginning of secondary school. Creativity ‘requires a certain degree of both general knowledge and field-specific knowledge’, according to the Iowa State University, in Defining Creativity. And this ‘general knowledge’ is all gained from school, the pinnacle place of learning. Not just the educational aspect of school, but the experiences gained with the people you are surrounded by. You are taking experiences from others to craft something new. That is creativity and therefore without the inspired nudge from schools, careers may not be fulfilled as well; if builders are not nurtured with creativity, how will they become as diversely exposed to problem solving and innovation?

Without creative subjects, we cease to know about culture and, in a world already filled with closed-mindedness and ignorance, why do some feel these lessons need to be revoked? We may be getting an extra maths lesson, but why does that matter when social skills are non-existent? And why are kids still being pressured to take subjects they despise and know they will never use, in order not to be laughed at when discussing their degrees?

So if you want, I urge you to take that art/drama/music/creative writing course you’ve been eyeing up and actually enjoy yourself. Because, how many people can be expressive with Pythagoras theorem?

Problems with my Name

Trundling mindlessly down the chart, they put on a front of calm, collected, cool. And only when they are in this state is when they see it. They’re getting closer, closer, there’s no way to avoid it, it’s coming, three left, two, one-

“Hel-aayyynaaa?”

“Hel-eeeeena?”

“…Helen?”

At this point in my school life, the whole class will collectively sigh – or scoff – and chant

“No miss, it’s Helena!”

When my parents finally decided my name (having a mum as a teacher meant that many names were rejected, for fear of sudden flashbacks to naughty children picking their noses, or calling her “mum” by mistake) and locked it into place, I doubt the idea that it would ever prove a problem swept into consideration. It’s simple, they would have thought, Helena. And I naively thought this too.

Up until I entered secondary school.

High school opened up many new intrigues for me, but one I didn’t contemplate was that every teacher I ever came across would say my name wrong. Granted the minority who laughed bashfully, announcing their daughter/son/partner has a friend with my name in a different pronunciation so assumed it would be the same (and, consequently, have a full-blown, one-sided conversation about that very amusing fact, as I was desperately trying escape for lunch). But they were the only ones that were forgiven.

The worst culprits were yet to come.

When I entered year 9, my whole maths class tentatively entered the domain of a notoriously evil teacher. And true, he was pretty harsh (but only when teaching – outside of the classroom, he was lovely. Why?), but the one thing I couldn’t stand was that after two years of having him teach me most days a week, he still got my name wrong.

“Sir, it’s Hel-en-na.”

Some must just view it as an exotic attempt of posh, middle-class, Greek, so surely it must not be as simple as ‘Helen’ with an ‘a’ on the end. But, my friends, peers, acquaintances, it is this simple!

And don’t even get me started on Quainton…

 “Quin-ton?”

“Queensland?”

“Quaint-on. IT’S TWO ACTUAL WORDS PUT TOGETHER.”

“Ah yes, Quan-ton. And, how do you spell that?”

Our Little Eateries

Whenever a store becomes vacant and another moves in, we always complain that yet another coffee shop or café will be appearing, even though we already have too many as it is. However, secretly, we love exploring the handwritten menus and sampling the homemade treats. And here are my favourites.

The Peppermill, Chorleywood

If anyone asked, “so, tell me Helena, what is your favourite restaurant?” (especially if it was in the posh voice that you just read it in) I would answer The Peppermill without a beat.

We still contemplate how we ever found this little restaurant, but we’re sure glad we did! From proper Italian pizzas, cooked in an authentic oven, to lunchtime ciabattas (and brownies with peanut butter ice cream - I know!), The Peppermill offers it all. Its family-orientated atmosphere and cosy décor make it instantly appealing and anyone who has ever served us has done so with warmth. I’ve loved it so much that it’s hosted two of my previous birthdays, and a family Christmas meal:

If you've ever had a goats cheese & caramelised onion tart, you've never had one like this.

Malteser cheesecake. Need I say more?

http://www.peppermillrestaurant.co.uk

Stratton Bakery

A small-scale chain, with a store open just paces from The Peppermill (lunch here, a walk and shop, then on to the restaurant?), this time-trapped bakery offers an ingenious lunch idea: design your own sandwich. Have you ever trudged into a supermarket, only to find the odd bedraggled sandwich left; too much mayo or veggies wilted enough to plead death with the nearest bin? Here, you select your bread (side note: the best bread you will ever eat is at a bakery - you haven’t tasted granary as fluffy as a pancake until you try here) and the filling, and all presented on china you would find in your Grandma’s cabinet. Plus, their cakes and cookies are fresh and the opposite of scrimping in size:

Don't knock it 'til you try it: egg and tomato, on granary.

A soft-centred white chocolate cookie the size of my head (but with chocolate chips instead of spots)

http://www.kohocoffee.co.uk

Koho Coffee

This was one of those shops I categorised above: new, hipster, got to be mediocre. Well, the cakes certainly aren’t! I have yet to delve into the menu, but everything sounds tempting enough to order at least five courses. But, if you do go, get a wedge of cake – it was so good, I had to slow myself down from inhaling it:

Apple cake: cinnamon-flecked sponge, dotted with raisins and baked apple slices on top, iced with a deliciously thick cream.

http://www.kohocoffee.co.uk

My house

Home to one of the best chefs (e.g. my mum) and her apprentice (…me). If you ever come over for a proper meal, you will be guaranteed a main and dessert all on the house! And, the pud was probably made by my fair hands too.

Honeycomb & vanilla cheesecake. Yes, there are Crunchies in and on it, and yes it was even more delicious than you're imagining.

A birthday cake of chocolate dreams: marbled vanilla and chocolate sponge, with  gooey chocolate ganache pouring everywhere - even better warm!

Can you tell I have a sweet tooth?

School Games

With paint embedding under my fingernails, I grapple with the edge of the windowsill. If I drop to the garden below, I’ll be fine. It’s just all in the timing.

And the plan.

It’s all one sadistic game we play: a handful of students, in a school, trying to outsmart a man who has lived in its walls for decades. We have stamina and fleeting reflexes; he knows how many steps to the outer fence.

To reach there was the only way to get out.

I was on my fourth life, unaware of the other players crouching in the lockers, or under desks in the eerily dead classrooms: paintings of castles and paper chains of reds and oranges, but obsolete of any other life, as if an evacuation had left the place time-trapped. This man, with a balding head and bulky forearms, waiting for its inhabitants to arrive back on the school bell.

Currently, feet from safety, I am limply hanging my body out of his bedroom window, like damp washing. Only the tendons in my fingers twitch, clinging to the whitewashed wood that drapes below the window. I can still watch the wooden door, eyes fixated on the silver door handle. As soon as he opens the door, I’ll drop: the sounds will counteract and I’ll be out of the premises before he’ll have time to run down the flight of stairs.

Here we go, the silver’s glint is travelling: the handle it turning.

But, what’s that?

No.

No no no no.

A twinkling trickles from my back pocket and winds through the window.

My phone.

He’ll hear me.

The handle’s still turning but I can’t drop.

He knows I’m here.

A piece written on a recent dream I had, where I awoke to the sound of my alarm and thus never found out if I made it to safety...

Observations of the Swimming Pool

I decided that to inject a bit of interest and pizazz to my otherwise mundane Sunday, I would go to our local indoor swimming pool (I know, my life is a riveting one). And this led me to discover that there are a lot of rules that the lifeguards will neglect to mention, as you enter their domain:

1. Double, triple, quadruple check you have brought everything out of the changing room.

The countless times my family and I have arrived home from a swimming lesson, arms heavy and legs twitching, only for my mum to realise our goggles are still limply hung around the changing dorm hook, appears to be (hopefully, for our sake) a common occurrence for most families. However, when you swim alone, it’s completely different. Sure, you don’t have to be selfless and hold your sibling’s/children’s/mother’s clothing, as they pile it into the locker, but you alone must protect your possessions. What if I leave my phone on the bench (even though I just put it into my bag)? What if the locker doesn’t close properly and some sneaky swimming pool thief comes to steal my hairbrush and towel? Which leads me onto another thing-

2. Bring pocketfuls of change. You’ll need it.

Not only did the person behind the desk charge me an extra 10p to go lane swimming (not even to go on the shark slide!) but this also meant that I now had no 20p for the lockers. No matter, I knew there were some that if you put £1 into, you got it back (instead of the locker swallowing your precious coinage). So, after getting into my costume, I found a locker and-20p. Moved along: 20p. They were all demanding 20p.

Thankfully, a kind mother pointed one out to me which needed £1 (probably one of two in the whole changing room). Thank you random lady from preventing an unsuspecting criminal from stealing my stuff!

3. No one understands the lane system.

If you think you do, you don’t. At least at our pool you don’t.

For lane swimming, our 25m pool is split into six sections, all marked with the speed of the swimmers, so you can join the correct one. Now, I may be young, but I am no jet-propeller in the pool, so the Fast Lane was immediately avoided. On the other hand, I’m not an inept swimmer either, and the Slow Lane was inhabited by eight year olds and their mothers, so the Medium Lane it was.

Except, that would have been too easy, wouldn’t it?

I slithered into the pool and instantly a lady doing butterfly strokes bends around the corner and in front of me. She is fast. Too fast for this lane, surely? But it was all fine, as it’s just me, her and another man. Plain sailing. Until she catches me up and I have to dart to the side to let her past (or risk being a lane-hogger). I glanced at the Slow Lane but to join it, I would have to go under the water to get past the wires, so I stuck to Medium.

Well, soon my lane was joined by a mother and her two sons, and then I was too quick for them. By this point, the butterfly lady had moved lanes, prompted by one of the boys attempting backstroke literally swiped her bottom with his wind-milling arm.

4. Don’t kick your legs out of the water, for goodness sake.

This is completely directed towards a middle-aged man in the lane next to me who, for some intriguing but more so annoying reason, kicked one leg out of the water every two stokes with his arm, thus drenching my face every other length or so (isn’t it such a marvellous coincidence that, no matter what speed I was going, he was almost certainly going to come splashing right past?) Look, if I wanted my hair drenched, I would have sat in the children’s pool and asked a toddler to throw water in my face.

5. Getting changed is an art form.

My greatest achievements of my swim was lifting myself out onto the poolside, instead of using the ladder (my arms are screaming because of it), and not soaking my clothing while trying to wrestle it back onto my body. The only other time I’ve stood on one leg for so long is probably a hopping race, and I think there was much less at stake for me then.

6. Fill your tank.

I don’t mean the car’s (unless it is empty, but I’d hope being a road-user, you’d already be aware of this concept) but your stomach’s. I don’t think this kind of hunger occurs anywhere else, except when you emerge from a swimming pool. One moment, you’re trying not to appear like an elephant seal exiting the pool, the next you might as well be one from your stomach’s groans. Go home and eat something delicious – you deserve it, you dolphin-hybrid you.

I hope these guidelines help you have a pleasant – if at worst, only slightly painful – swim. But, if you can only recall one thing from this list, just remember to pack your deodorant.

The Fox

A piece I wrote a few months ago, set even later still, in 1950s...

How did it all begin? I remember it as clear as the sky that day, a much-anticipated English-blue, only ever witnessed on those rare summer afternoons. I was admiring it so much that I did not see him peddling towards me, even on that blaze of burgundy. An Schwinn New World, they were just so charming, it suited him perfectly. He was forever whisking around on it; I used to joke that he looked too confident, as if he’d just sped away from conning someone. That made him laugh, that cackling giggle.

Anyway, after almost knocking me to the ground – my own fault mind, but if I had been looking, who knows what would have happened – he sharply pulled up to the fence, leaping off in the swiftest of styles.

Well, he was rather striking: his auburn crop was slicked ever so slightly, exasperating his angular features – Foxy was his nickname for it, I can see why now – and hazel eyes. Sometimes I swear they flickered with amber.

After that, it sped into romance. My mother was rather weary of teddy boys, but she soon adored him like her own, allowing his witticisms and even overlooking his whiskers, which grew too quick when he hadn’t shaved. It was only the beagle that didn’t approve, but then Buddy wasn’t exactly the sharpest tack.

And it is only now I wish I had paid attention to that dog.

It began with a little bit of money disappearing. Then, gradually, more and more. I was rather concerned – and him too – yet he was the article of innocence and charm. When, one day, I did confront him, he whirled around, as if I’d pinned him against a wall. And, just like our meeting, I will never forget that day:

“But-how could you accuse me? Can’t you see I’m trying to help your family too? Don’t you trust me?” He thrust guilt into my throat, but he wasn’t finished: “I have always been there for you.”

I told him I was sorry, I loved him, I was tired, I was stressed, I just was.

I felt terrible; he was the most charming, most compassionate, most handsome man I’d met. I couldn’t believe I could have accused him, especially after his reaction.

One week later, he’d scampered away with the money.

Into the countryside somewhere, further than here. Ironically, it turned out even when we’d first met, he was cycling away from his most recent theft. Oh, he was a fox all right. A deceptively cunning fox.