Diary in Arts

International Women's Day

diary in the arts.

One.

The man in the glass house says you're something decent. The margins regarding gender are clear.

It's about 1 to 8.

We pretend not to notice.

Two.

We meet under trees, facts remain the same. I am an anomaly, she is an anomaly, when she comes - no one questions if it is comfortable.

No one questions how to close the gap.

Three.

It is obvious to me why I might be welcome. They seem like friends, as if my work is valued, but there's an undercurrent, as if I'm the blood and they may be

the Great White.

There will be a devouring. I can't navigate away from it forever.

Choose wisely.

Four.

One says they'd want more.
I cut contact, maintain my position, seem to be valued. I still smell a beast in the room with more invested interest than the pen

 - nothing changes, not really.

Five.

The arts scene is spinning with beautiful, well produced male work and I feel in quick sand, unable to analyse my worth against theirs.

Is it accurate

or am I just for diversity numbers?

Everything is black and white.

I host but I don't host, I move the chairs. I organise,

PA.

Six.

Someone wants to make a book,

someone does make the book.

The feeling is constantly there that I must be a 'good girl' if that'll ever make it to print.

Seven.

It doesn't.

I wasn't.

Everyone scarpers. I didn't behave palatably, repeatedly it was taken when I wasn't well behaved.

No one talks about the inequality in production.

You shouldn't need to be acceptable as a person to be an artist who makes it to page.

Perhaps I wasn't "good" enough anyway.

Eight.

Someone wants to publish me.
Someone else,
elsewhere,
in a space I trust because a woman made it. She doesn't want to screw me.

I stop attending all male run events, stop interacting, go where I feel safe.

LGBTQ+ and female run is all there is, I close my circle.

I feel more well again.

Nine.

We reach publishing state.

I value my work, attend an open mic in an old haunt.

A man with a camera takes photos.
He knows it makes me uncomfortable.
He knows the power he wields.

Ten.

Cut your own path.
Spit in the faces of those who tell you you can't or you shouldn't or you have to be a box
of what they consider acceptable behaviour and when you're done

publish a book,

and when that's done

shine your torch on others

until there're so many beacons of hope

no small, unacknowledged microaggressions,
no barely noticed, never addressed poor margins
can chase another woman
away from her light.