An Artist in lockdown

I was asked a couple of weeks ago to write a few words about "my life as an artist in lockdown" for Southwell Festival's newsletter for their supporters. Southwell Festival has been one of the most special and important places for making music for me the past few years, characterised as it is by an incredible sense of joy in music-making, respect for colleagues, warmth of interaction between performers, audience members and volunteers, and some of the freest and most thrilling performances I've been part of.

I know that many friends and colleagues have been grappling with their own losses of the places where they flourish and grow as musicians and artists, and that trying to work out how to ‘be’ in this most bizarre of situations has been tough as anything. It took me many weeks to work out how to be a bit more gentle with myself through this time, and I hope that posting this might encourage others to be gentler with themselves too. So here it is...When I was invited to write about my life as an artist in lockdown, I was very happy to have the chance to connect to Southwell and the Festival, and all that means to me. 

The truth is that, as an artist, my life in lockdown has been so other to what it normally is, my first thought was whether I could still claim to be an artist under these circumstances where I am hardly singing, certainly not with anyone else, which for someone whose prime career focus is on ensemble and group singing begs the question – how indeed can I still be an artist in lockdown?

There have been the inevitable ‘virtual choir’ videos, in which for the first time ever I watched a performance of a ‘concert’ I was in without having the first clue how it had gone, or what to expect when I watched and listened back.  I was somewhere in between a state of elated happiness to ‘see’ my colleagues ‘on stage’ singing together, and a feeling of profound grief at what has, temporarily at least, been lost.  Make no mistake, the process of singing into a laptop in isolation at home, vainly trying to follow a pre-recorded video or guide track which will no more respond to what you are doing than does the radio when you sing along with that, is not just not the same as the physical, intimate process of breathing as one with the people next to you, singing as one and reacting to the chemistry in the room  - it’s a totally different game.  The two things have about as much in common with each other as holding someone you love in a warm embrace and greeting the postman.

I have felt deep grief for the temporary loss of the work I love, the close community, hilarity and support of colleagues, many of whom are so much more than that, the feeling of somehow having transported and transformed the day of people in an audience.  And yet, as the initial shock of isolation and panic over the question of how I would survive the financial fallout gradually subsided as I realised I could still connect with people, albeit in a different way, and that I will, somehow, weather the financial storm, I have noticed the emergence of something else: gratitude.   As the days and weeks wear on, I realise that I have become immensely grateful, more so than ever I suspect, for the small, day to day things which enrich my life.  Time with my partner, time to sit and really savour a cup of coffee, time to talk to friends and family almost every day, time to sleep, time to bake bread and tackle cooking pork belly for the first time, time to exercise, time to walk every day and notice how the landscape around me has changed through the spring.  I’ve started to recognise not only species of birds on my daily outings, but also the individual birds, families of geese and goslings, red kites, goldfinches and a greater spotted woodpecker, who I now know to look out for when passing a particular tree. 

And when trying to look for a common thread here, I suppose it is the sudden abundance of time that brings an overarching thread to it all.  In ‘real life’, time is something which in general I am very poor in.  Between the concerts, rehearsals, travel, packing and unpacking of suitcases, grabbing what sleep I can in between it all, the odd run (often resulting in injury because I don’t have the time to warm up my body properly, or to stretch and cool down), innumerable Pret sandwiches shoved down whilst dashing from one place to the next, I know that when I really examine the reality of how life was when things were ‘normal’, I was really missing out on a lot of these so-called small things which now are enriching my life.

So although I am grieving deeply for the music-making that for now is on hold, for the physicality of singing together with friends and colleagues who I love fiercely, I am also finding time in this new reality to give my grief space, and to give my self space.  I’ve stopped struggling with the question of ‘what I am doing’ for now.  For now, I am living every day in the present, taking time for myself, for my loved ones, to catch up and slow down after the rush I have been in for the past decade or more.  Don’t misunderstand me, I miss the singing more than I can say, and my willingness to relax into this unexpected timeout is underpinned by an unshakeable belief that this too shall pass, and we will sing together again. 

I can’t wait to be back with colleagues, friends and places like Southwell that I love, but for now I’m taking a well-earned break.