We’ve been delighted to work with Yorkshire Sound Women Network to support it in developing an effective operational model to deliver to its ambitions.
Having worked with the Network over the past few months, we’ve learned a bit about digital sound technology and a lot about the under representation of women in music and sound production. The UK Commission for Employment and Skills (UKCES) has highlighted the continuing failure of the sector to train and retain female employees, particularly given the fact that Britain is expected to need 1.2 million new digital workers by 2022. Women should represent a sizeable proportion of that workforce but UKCES’s model suggests that by 2022, the proportion of workers in the digital sector who are women will have barely risen, to just 30%.
In this context, it’s great to observe the strides that the Network is taking to address and challenge historical and current bias and to develop safe, accessible workshops and masterclasses for girls and women with an interest in sound technologies.
It’s been a pleasure working with the folk at BIASAN over the past few months as part of our Arts Council England funded project – Telling. We produced their story and in response, artists Mussarat (Mo) Rahman and Douglas Thompson made use of the Telling commission and worked with asylum seekers and refugees to make the animation which you can see at the end of this post.
We’re also very much looking forward to welcoming Mo and Douglas to the Engage International Conference in Hull on 30 November where they will collaborate with Ivan Liotchev to deliver a session focusing on intercultural dialogue and making art with marginalised communities across the globe. To register for Conference, please visit engage.org and follow the link to The Whole Picture.
An extract of our story about BIASAN follows:
Mo: the beauty of the place
When I first met Mussarat – a key organiser and artist at BIASAN, known to everyone as Mo – she was at the home of another volunteer in Saltaire. Soon after I arrived, she apologised for appearing a little pre – occupied; that weekend she was due to accompany a BIASAN service user on a visit to her son in Belgium. The woman had acquired her indefinite leave to remain status so was able to travel freely across the European Union (though, of course, that may change soon for different reasons). Her son, however, had not acquired status and so was stuck in Belgium where he awaited the outcome of his application for asylum. Mo knew a little French so she would hopefully be of some support on the journey. Mo seemed largely unperturbed at the prospect of spending the weekend in Belgium with a woman she knew a little and a man she knew not at all. She toId the story in a matter of fact way and I remember thinking, ‘Is this what BIASAN does? Is this what is expected of people working there?’
I told Mo that to me this seemed way above and beyond the call of duty and exceptionally generous. Mo seemed unfazed: it was a thing that needed doing; she had agreed to it so she would do it. Her concern was that they set off on time so that there was no danger of arriving late and missing connections.
We went on to meet with her again several weeks later. The trip to Belgium had not been without its challenges. She summarised the experience:
I can’t describe it. Never again. He was crackers.
We met in a café in North Leeds and ate things involving avocados, pulses and sourdough. The food was good and the bill for the three of us was probably getting on for half of the weekly food budget for BIASAN’s communal meal.
Mo has been involved with BIASAN for around 10 years. Her role is probably best described as multi – dimensional. She seems to do anything and everything that needs doing and over the duration of Telling she was our fixer, corralling people in to talking to us; setting up meetings; and providing us with background materials. She is a formally trained artist who develops her own projects and who fits her own artistic practice around her ongoing commitment to BIASAN (or perhaps it’s the other way around). Like many of the volunteers we spoke to, BIASAN looms large in Mo’s life. We asked her how she brought an artist’s sensibility to her work with the organisation:
To be honest being an artist doesn’t fit in at all. I felt initially that they expected too many hours out of me which crushed the artist out of me. I was actually just delivering creative arts projects but no art.
That said, ten years on she remains very engaged. She has recruited and selected other artists to work with service users and has enabled BIASAN to collaborate with arts organisations in the city on a range of projects, Cartwright Hall and the National Media Museum amongst others. The way she describes it, art is a form of meditation for Mo:
I’ve done loads of artwork which helps you forget about your own stuff. Art is holistic really… I was an artist before I even got to BIASAN and I’m an artist when I’m out there – when I do my own work.
I’m trying to find a way of using art as a platform to try to focus the brain. I’ve done loads of activities: painting, illustrations etc. I’m just sitting there creating all these things. Focus on your work and forget about all the other stuff… I think it’s my own passion because I love art, love the process and having that space to do my own stuff.
Like most people we spoke to, Mo describes BIASAN as embodying elements of chaos. It doesn’t suit everyone and even for those it does suit, sometimes it can get too much. Art provides her with a means of separating and recalibrating:
Sometimes I just shut the door and ignore everyone because I need that space. I need to think. In a sense, my brain needs it. That’s why I do it – because it puts me in a different space… I get all of that out of it.
She believes that engaging with art can have a similar impact on people who use BIASAN so she works hard to find small pots of money which enable the organisation to pay artists on a sessional basis. Mo figures that if something captures individuals’ interest, it might temporarily distract them from other things. There’s no predicting what will work so Mo engages a range of artists whose practice varies and – importantly – who are able to function in a non – traditional space where numbers and levels of engagement vary from one week to another. Once there, though, artists need to find their own way because there is no formal induction:
Initially, they don’t know how to do it so I say to them ‘Go, walk round the building and talk to people. Have a cup of tea and tell them who you are.’ They need to go chill out and talk to people.
Talking to Lorrain and Douglas later (two resident artists who deliver sessions at BIASAN), they discover that for the past few weeks they have been working in the same space without either being aware of the other’s presence. Having visited BIASAN, Derrick and I had little difficulty understanding how this might occur. We imagined that functioning in the space probably requires a great deal of concentration and focus.
Mo’s approach to the work seems matter of fact and practical. She’s clearly a doer. She talks a lot about what other volunteers do and contribute but seems reluctant to discuss what she gives in anything more than the most general terms. She doesn’t seem to want to draw attention to herself. It’s hard to gauge at first what motivates her to continue to give up so much of her time and energy to BIASAN – where the sense of fellow feeling comes from. Then she drops into the conversation a story about how she has experienced living in Bradford:
I’ve lived all over Bradford. I once had a psycho neighbour. My flat got broken into. The only thing they nicked was a bike. There wasn’t much to nick.
Then when I lived in Southfield Road I liked living there but it was really rough. For an Asian female on my own I was a bit vulnerable, but I can look after myself. The neighbours across the road were horrible. They used to come up to you and look at you and I thought, ‘Yeah, try me’. I’m not into violence and stuff but my issue was ‘This is my pavement and I’ve decided that this is how I’m going to live my life’ so I used to get a lot of shit and they used to think they could pick on me because they thought I was vulnerable but I’m not vulnerable.
I thought, ‘I’ve got a family and brothers and I used to kick shit out of them and I could kick shit out of you.’ So honestly, it was terrible the way they used to be. But I manged to cope with it.
Half of them have moved off. Some are still on drugs and drink. Why should I need to move house because of them? I pay my bills and I make sure I keep a roof over my head. I don’t want to move around like a yoyo. I’m settled there.
Weeks later, when Derrick and I are sitting in the park on that rare hot day trying to make sense of things, Derrick says,
I wonder what made her stay. I wonder why she didn’t leave.
Then neither of us says anything and in the recording you can hear birds and the sounds of a couple playing playing table tennis but not the flies that buzzed around an abandoned sandwich close to the bench.
Mo is made of stern stuff and she seems able to compartmentalise difficult events so that they don’t infect her experience of the world. Despite the neighbours and the break in and the harassment, she likes Bradford. It’s down to earth and friendly. Though less prosperous than Leeds, she likes its distinctiveness. She tells us that people in the asylum seeking system who use BIASAN also describe Bradford as friendly and welcoming. There are limited work opportunities, though, so often once people get their status they move away. For the time that they’re in Bradford, though, Mo sees her role as trying to restore some balance in what can feel like a chaotic and unpredictable period:
You know when you’ve been to hell and back, I try to bring them back into themselves, to feel what it’s like to be in harmony – make them feel a bit more happy in themselves. Sometimes I feel that BIASAN is a place where lost souls are found. That is the beauty of the place.
It’s been a pleasure working with Patwah Media and Community Arts over the past few months as part of Telling – our Arts Council England funded pilot project.
Once we’d finished writing the story of Patwah, we provided Pauline, Sandra, Mareen and Mycall – the stalwarts behind Patwah – with a small commissioning budget to make some art which interprets the story we wrote.
What they decided on is very much a Made in Bradford production and all the better for that. The piece is written and performed by Mycall Isrell, filmed by Void Arts with sound recorded at Rubix Cube Music Lab. A link to the film is at the end of this post.
In the meantime, here’s a short extract from the Patwah story:
Though each person we spoke to had their own take on what Patwah is and why it is important, there was a strong sense in all of our conversations that connections are slipping away; that there is an imperative to provide opportunities for people to come together, to talk to each other and – as one of the people we spoke to described it – to make space for fellowship.
Early on in our conversations with people associated with Patwah, we noticed that themes of invisibility and voicelessness were discussed and returned to repeatedly. One person asked us,
Do you know what it’s like to feel invisible?
This was not a rhetorical question and it was one that Derrick was able to answer rather better than I – we’ll get on to that presently.
For my part and thinking back to those early conversations, I know that I heard what people said about feeling invisible. I listened and I took notes, some of which I underlined. But I didn’t understand how it might feel and I didn’t appreciate that it means being unseen, and – by logical extension – being unheard.
Or, as Mycall described it,
If you’re not visible, nobody knows you’re there.
Like most of the people we spoke to, he referred to a process of dispersal which meant that over time African Caribbean communities in Bradford no longer had an established geographical base. It was only later on in our conversations that we began to unpick how and why communities might have become dispersed but the first explanation – Mycall’s – was perhaps the most striking,
The Black community just went, ‘Whoosh!’ Just scattered.
It felt sudden and unexpected: as if you might wake up one day and turn around and wonder where everybody had gone. Mycall was not the only person we spoke to who expressed that sense of sudden atomisation.
As the community dispersed, so too did what Mycall described as visible symbols of a Black presence in Bradford: the African Caribbean shops and businesses that were a feature of Lumb Lane and Manningham Lane have gone and that’s not all that’s gone and is missed,
It could be a group of Black guys walking down the road. For me, these things count. You know what I’m saying? Even if it’s not a conversation, it’s that eye contact…It sounds depressing but it is depressing.