I always think of Peter on results day.
I look over the form photograph taken in the classroom of our gowned teacher. We are clustered around him, the girls seated on the low cupboards and the boys standing. My eyes march along the lines trying to put names to faces, adding brief biographies as I go, surprised at how much recall I have of that mid-seventies day. Either side of me are my then best friends, Alison and Louise, one now a wine writer married for the third time and one a dedicated nurse widowed almost before the signatures on the certificate had dried. Kevin, whom I saw last year, his features hardly changed since we sat side by side in infants’ together. John, whom I loved so much that I gave my tin railway set to and who, as a man, left the family home one morning, opened the garage door as usual but instead of putting the key in the ignition and driving to work, flung a rope over the cross beam and hung his weak Cystic Fibrosis body. Michael, bricklayer; Clare, went to Oxford but no idea what next; Julie, still working in the family shop; Vicky who went to prison, had two of her babies there and who collapsed in my arms at the sorrow of it all when I last saw her; David, Andrew and Chris working on their dads’ farms to this day; Graham, killed on his motorbike when he was twenty-one. The roll call goes on and on; a vet, an MP, emigrated to Australia, a picture framer, a mum, the dad who married the mum, the one who was good at sports and the one who swam the Channel.
The boy on the end of the front row stares back at my gaze. Peter. A quiet person with a fragile, pale face. His hands sunk low in the green blazer pockets, there is a definable distance between him and the rest of the group. I didn’t know him very well. I’d known most of the others since I started school but Peter travelled in from the next hamlet and kept himself to himself. I know that he wanted to study medicine, that he was in the chess club and, like me, the art club, and that he once patiently and kindly helped me to prepare a display for Open Evening.
By the time they all sat exams my life had taken a different turn. I was no longer part of the photograph. I was living away from home and that August results’ day meant nothing to me.
I would never have heard about Peter if I hadn’t been on milk buying duty that day. Londons’ was a cluttered little shop carrying cheap toys, basic groceries and an assortment of newspapers and magazines. The headline on the ‘York Evening Press’ sidled up to me as I queued behind a stream of youngsters eager to buy their fistfuls of sweets, Peter’s serious, intense features set there in monochrome newsprint. He had been worried for several days, his family said; concerned that his results would not yield the promised place at University College though absolutely no one else had any doubts that he would succeed.
I try to imagine the dark place that Peter was in. The tensions and fears that must have been binding his introverted mind.
All the farming families had a shotgun hanging on the back door and the boys were usually taught how to use them as soon as they could handle the weight.
I think of him taking down the firearm and hooking the bent barrel over his elbow, stuffing cartridges into the pockets of his parka and setting across the fields in the very early hours of results day. It was a good couple of hours walk into the village. Did he stumble in the darkness or have any second thoughts about what he was intent on doing?
He must have silently planned every part, choosing the place of his death with the tenacular precision of someone who had the makings of a good doctor. He marked the area with a piece of chalk, writing a neat ‘Sorry’ for his mum, dad and sister on the limestone step of the war memorial cross and leaning with his back against the chiselled out name of his great grandfather he lifted the rifle and blew his brains out.
The form gathered in the school hall that day, receiving the pieces of paper that held their results. Peter’s sister collected his for him. He had four straight A’s.
The pressure was intense then to get the right grades and there was little support for those who fell short.
As the years have progressed, that pressure has become even greater. League tables, social media, the fight for university finance and the press have all contributed to making the exams and all that surrounds them a time of great stress for young people. If the results are higher than average, then they are made to feel that standards must have been lower and if the results are lower, then surely the youngsters must not have worked hard! They can't win whatever they do. The photographers are keen to capture both the delight and the pain and those who fail are given no opportunity to carry their bewilderment and disappointment in private.
As results come through today, be sensitive that these are young souls at a time of their development when things cut deep. If you encounter those whose journey has been harder than that of some of their peers, encourage them, give them privacy and space to assimilate their let downs and then be there for them as they think through their options. Don't use discouraging words that may stick with them forever but build them up and assure them that this is not the end. Success comes through many, many routes and often the most delightful life stories are from those who never achieved academic success.
There are still Peters in our system almost annually. Tragedies that should never happen. The nation needs to re-evaluate the emphasis it puts on results, to stop pressuring our children to do more and more and to focus on what people can do instead of what they can't, but until that day comes, it is the responsibility of us all to be alert for warning signs of depression, anxiety and stress in the tender young people we encounter and have charge for. Build them big, encourage them, show them that they are of deep worth and value, no matter what their academic success. All the academic endeavour in the world is of no virtue unless we give them confidence in themselves, the self esteem to empower whatever they do in life and the authenticity to be amazing, incredible gifted people living lives with the potential and purpose that is in each individual.
A box has arrived on my desk today, addressed to Artist 22.
It marks the beginning of a new project. Not a large project, but one I’m looking forward to putting my creative mark on, and also one I shall respectfully project manage my part in as carefully as I would a vastly bigger challenge.
There is a meme that periodically does the rounds of social media that goes along the lines of, ‘Creative people don’t have messy homes; they just have ideas lying around everywhere.’ It’s one that irritates me immensely, because it suggests that creatives live in a world of constant chaos over which they have little control, and whilst it is true that the more stimulus a creative mind is given, the more it goes on to have further off shoots of ideas – as in most other fields of life, the reality of living one’s life with a creative focus needs to include a discipline and order that recognises the need for organisation and has a deep understanding of the length, deadlines and roles involved in each individual project. My colleagues would not only be extremely cross with me if I didn’t complete my part on time, but grant monies might be rescinded, pressure put on others further down the line, a great deal of goodwill lost and in the worst case scenario, the project might collapse altogether.
I said that my box marked the beginning, but actually that’s not true. The five phases of managing a creative project are;
My part in this project goes further back than the package on my desk. It truly began when I was approached to be one of the artists. I had to consider whether it was something I felt comfortable doing; discover the vision of those who had instigated and brought it into being; listen carefully to details of their ideas and find out how much ‘scope’ I have to put my own interpretation on the brief; find out what roles everyone involved has and, most important, what are the deadlines we are working to. When working with creatives, the deliverables are heartfelt creative expressions and those who have carried those ‘babies’ and invested in them, sometimes for a long time and after lengthy pursuits of funding and permissions, and sometimes with very personal reasons behind the concept, can be inevitably more wedded to the overall product of their work than others might be, so it is particularly important to treat them respectfully and sensitively.
What I’m really focusing on now is the planning part. Ideas have been sorting and re-sorting in my mind since I first heard about the project, but it’s time to get those ideas in order, to draw up plans and pull together the resources I need. With the best will in the world, I couldn’t do that with any degree of efficiency if I lived surrounded by mess. I need things to be accessible, my time to be managed effectively and my working space to be organised. It’s a misnomer to think of creatives as airy type creatures that float from idea to idea, because if that was the case, they simply wouldn’t be able to do their jobs. They have to be part creative, part manager, with an eye on the bigger picture, an empathy and ability to communicate with everybody else involved and the tools and skill to carry out the task.
There’s a box on my desk.
I’m curious now to explore its content and where my imagination will take it, but, in doing that, I am constantly aware that I am only Artist 22, one tiny link in the chain of this project coming together, each person involved with their own set of deliverables and a significant part of the bigger picture.