The degree of abuse suffered is not always obvious to the observer but only known by the victim who is reluctant to share it with others. (Please feel free to handle the pieces) Ralph Mavin
----A man gets up one morning and he leaves his family.
A man gets up one morning and he finally leaves his family. They need him now more than ever. This is the fear that he wakes up with every morning.
There is the fear that he wakes up with every morning, that he is back there and it is still happening and they never got out. It is still happening and they never got out and he wakes up every morning, never knowing when they might come.
There is the fear that he wakes up with every morning,
that every morning he will wake up
and he will see
There is the fear that he wakes up with every morning that he is still here. Won’t ever go back.
This too is a fear he wakes up with and
There is the fear that he will forget,
that he will forget because he never again will see his mosque his
zouhourat his nargilah
His taste buds. His taste buds will no longer be his taste buds.
He will never see, his kids will never see
his dusty road his stinking sewer
There is a kind of tree blossom there
He knows he will forget.
There is the fear that his wife wakes with, every morning. And there is the fear that he can’t ever make that go away
the fear of his daughter the fear of his son the waking every single morning
He wakes up with fear.
So he gets up one morning and he leaves his family.
He leaves his family and he walks down the stairs of a tenement building.
A tenement building
A tenement man
He walks down the stairs of a tenement building and it is sleeping and the building is sleeping because it is early and
When it comes to the good old Scottish tenement close,
the rear-view mirror of historic recollection always has a
rosy tint to it. It’s a staple of Scottish urban folklore, for
instance, that no close door was ever locked against a
He goes down the stairs in the tenement building and every door is locked and he does not and he does not how to speak to any of them.
How to say hello.
How to say hello in a way that
It is early and he does not even know where these people work.
It is early and his family are sleeping, so he goes down the stairs. He steps into the street. It is not so early that it should still be dark. But it is still dark.
Orange glow street lights
the street lights shine through his curtains when he can’t sleep and it is still dark but it is already morning.
It is his street. He walks down the street, the hill, and down to the city and
To go and get the smell of early morning bread?
He walks down the hill to the city and it is dark when he gets there, and everywhere morning things morning things, he can understand that much are happening
People run walk dogs call out to people to stop in the square for a cigarette drink coffee paper cups
They pay to drink coffee. Out of paper cups.
This is his city now, he thinks. This is his city square. So he walks right down the middle of the road
He walks right down the middle of a road and he might as well raise his hands and scream “I am crazy! I know I am crazy!”
No one notices him.
This street is pedestrianized. This street is a zig-zag of grey bricks that he already knows soak up the rain and are treacherous to old people with sticks and bags in winter in winter
This street is pedestrianized. He is a pedestrian.
He gets up another morning and he leaves his family.
He walks away and he leaves them sleeping. He walks down the stairs of his tenement, down his street, down the hill that leads to his city and its sickly, orange glow. And no one looks at him because it is early, no one even sees where he might be going, what he might do, in the state of mind that he is in
Why does no one watch watch every single little thing that he is doing?
He knew people who looked.
And this dark dark dark
The dark morning is a refuge of sorts
Is it safe in the early morning, in the darkness and the rain?
While no one is looking?
His coat is stupidly thin, to keep out the cold of winter, to keep out any of the cold of winter, let alone the rain seeping in.
But his small rucksack is heavy. It too is wet in the rain.
They tell him they are looking for a better coat for him. They tell him they are looking for a suitable coat and he does not know what that means but at least there is a coat for his son and a coat for his daughter.
He walks down the street. He walks right down the middle of the street, in his stupidly, woefully thin coat, and the nothing underneath it, the absolute nothing it conceals and
He walks up to an old building, and to a new building. It is pillars and stone. It is steel and glass. It is and
A whole formed by identical separate parts. Would it look
better all smoothed into one cohesive mass or do the
corroded crevices add to the interest?
The individual layers are lacking in definition and hence
of less interest.
It is the message not the image which is of interest.
He walks up to the building and he knows that it is important. He supposes that the building is beautiful. He supposes that in its own way, it is meant to look beautiful.
He walks up to it and it is an art gallery and he remembers. Art. Such things.
He thinks of pictures and words and shapes and colours and explosions He thinks of songs and rhymes and sculpture and music and a roar of noise. He thinks of dreams and drama and messages and ideas. He thinks of voices.
He thinks of people’s voices being heard.
He thinks of everything art can be, that he knows that art can be.
He knows, and when it comes to the important stuff, he needs to remember
He sees a sign.
“Open 10 – 5”
Gallery of Modern Art
He sees a sign. So it is time to act.
“Ceramics by Ralph Mavin”
Gallery of Modern Art
He sits down on stone steps, lets damp seep into his trousers. They are thin and he does not care and they are stretched at the seams, but it does not matter.
They will not let him in the building for another three hours.
They will not
But at least he will be ready
He sees pots. He sees pots and signs and writing.
The part which is folded back on the bottom left still
shows the same ribbed markings forming a pictorial link
and identifying it as a whole rather than two separate
This is very subtle, but there is something there which
could be developed. It just needs some cerebral soak time
to find it.
Note – the hole was not made by a bullet.
He will wait.
For the creative dissertation of the MLITT, Stephen submitted the first section of an experimental, fragmented novel based loosely around the Japanese art of Kintsugi. This artistic philosophy treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than as something to conceal which, lends itself to exploring issues to do with mental health and belonging. Cracked, part two is one fragment from this novel in progress.