The Competition.

As co-creators of this BIG ship. We take turns in navigation. Trusting the other will spy rock and steer us well. And sometimes we see the same rock differently. And then what? There is listening. And counter argument. And the one with the greatest gut wins. And the other accepts it. And takes disappointment on the chin. Like a child, a little grumpy but soon engaged with the next wave and past the rock completely.

I wanted to enter a competition to give us some instant BIG cash and a business fast track. I wrote the application and had a feeling we were a strong contender. Lilly felt the same, and then asked me to pull the application. I did. Because I knew it was not right. That for a company like ours to be ethical and brave, we could not. But I am still a bit grumpy. And I think it is mainly because I want to see if we could/would win!

In my house tonight I had an extra child. An international, visiting from London. Squashed in age between my two boys, the resulting trysts were hilarious. Before bed there were re-enactments of the Cirque du Soleil performance we had just witnessed (thanks Grannie!): all strong men and acrobats and silent movie film stars careering around in the playroom til WAY beyond bedtime. Wind down consisted of gluey fingers sticking paper-monsters, a collaborative calamity of a shoebox house (I am no queen of craft!) and a drawing competition. The competition winner was decided by a spinning pencil. The 5yr old judge spun it repeatedly until his brother won. In the end it was decided the visitor should win. Skill played no part in the decider as they agreed all were brilliant. Paper medals were made up. And a very wonky trophy. Photos were taken, the picture gallery hung, and the satisfied winners eventually all tumbled sleepwards.

I sat with the paper trophy and let myself wonder. And then I went back to the competition entry and deleted my submission. Crossing each other out in the over-rule? No.
A lighthouse at a pivotal BIG juncture in the making of this magazine? Yes.
Thanks Lilly.

The practice of landing

BIG is a magazine in the making.

We work in the between hours: between children, between sleep, between work, between cities.
BIG exists is in all the available spaces, which, because of the Perth/Sydney time difference, means it's close to 24/7. We are also dreaming BIG.  There have been times of acceleration, and times of letting the work speak quietly for itself in its own time.  Right now, BIG is in overdrive. Lilly and I run and work at such speed that we collide in the night. This time though, we talk easily through difference and land on the same BIG page.

Twyla at work

The shared landing between us has extended to many BIG things in the last week. We are currently drafting the BIG contents page and are incredibly excited by what is emerging atop of what we thought we already knew. We have also had the penny finally drop with our logo. We have been through so many drafts and much questioning although I am not surprised at the time it has taken to arrive at our latest 'beginning'. People want concrete so quickly. Lilly tells me tonight of the fluidity with which very young kids paint, where nothing is concrete and how the process is everything.  As adults, of course we promote the journey not the destination, but there is much expectation on arriving quickly at certainty without doubt. What IS this BIG magazine, people ask? What EXACTLY will it be? It will be something that is needed, something that speaks to the current generation of parents, artists and carers. And foremost, to KIDS and the child in all of us.  It will promote creative thinking, and even under pressure, I am adamant that we practice what we preach and continue to listen, respond, and follow our attention and interest, all while galvanising these creative drivers into action.

As a lecturer in dance to final year BA and diploma students, my unofficial role as I teach, is to ready and enable each of them to understand their own creative 'drivers', and passion, and be able to translate this to whatever project they land in, dancing or otherwise.  I ask them to invite the possibility that all of their history and experience is accessible at all times (no wonder sometimes its difficult to get out of bed - just think of the weight of all the experience we store in our bones!!). There are 100 touch receptors in each finger tip. Just notice that for a moment.  Sensation leads to such great places. Not all are positive. Richness is found in the range of experience. None greater, I believe, than experienced as a child, in love, and as a parent: Oh the HIGH's. Oh the lows! (Please feel free to add to this in the comments- as a traveller, artist, gardener, crafter, runner, dreamer, baker, student, builder, thinker, supporter, teacher etc. What drives you?)

Twlya in process

 I completely believe in 'not-knowing' as a philosophy in creative practice. It is OK to sit with not knowing, to be quiet in the uncertainty, to trust that it will find its way. To not pressure the end result of everything before its time while being unequivocal in the understanding that such a cumulative process will arrive brilliantly! As a choreographer I am used to visioning projects that may not come to fruition for a number of years due to funding or artist availability or the birth of babies! I honestly trust that each point of 'arrival' makes itself known, in performance-making and life. Sometimes instantly and sometimes over years. Sometimes oh so easily, and sometimes painstakingly. I am deliberately active in not knowing all of the answers and in trusting that the work I do will eventually land in a place where I can see what is  needed. 
Like Twyla, we dive into the grandest of detail and suspend our own disbelief in the BIG process as it grows in scale, speed, and clarity. Listening in every landing.

Boat Bird and the great sea swell of doubt.

The water continues to rise in Brisbane and, being married to a mediaman, I am flooded with the weight of it. I struggle with how removed I remain.With the paradox of natural disaster.

In my hot, dry home, I run the ebb and flow of days and nights with three sick children, nothing serious except for my nerves and lack of sleep. And the greyness of doubt. 
An afternoon working in the studio saves me from running so far inward I that can't see.
Instead I name what I can see in the swell of BIG doubt:
I am concerned with the lack of rigour in some of my posts,
the lack of distinction,
the occasional school project feel of it,
the small flock of birds flying,
the rejection in the form of quiet reply. (This is not a performance)
With the volume of silence,
the hesitation in posting hesitation,
the sharing of not knowing and uncertainty,
the confusion of double platform and duel audience,
the possibility that I am investing too much in a distraction (from my own future).
With the lack of time,
the fallout of expectation,
the conflicting reality of transparency and self censoring,
the pressure.
With the question of value, and reason,
the accumulation of relentless flying lessons,
the repeated crashing into runway,
the lack of auto pilot.

And then I fall into the relief of realising I have lost my way in the night, and that most days I have no map nor compass here.  I am forced to let go of the micro-detail of the researcher in me. The academic. I accept that there is too much information here. I accept I do not know most of it. I fly anyway.

So right now, I post what I am sure of; the collaboration between Lilly and I. The stories we are writing and imaging as we go, the creation of them as miniature limited edition books within the pages of the magazine. The collection. And this particular one, we introduce below: Boatbird,  originally an idea of a friendship between a boat and a bird dreamed by Lilly, to which I responded to by falling in love with this deeply felt bird over the original one. Between the idea and the response, a platform of collaboration and process was born. The words and imaging of Boatbird fly in response to what we hear, in response to children who are thrown against rocks, in response to things much bigger than doubt.

Boat Bird and the long sea home (Part 1)

One hundred thousand steps from home he had carried his boat. His head was flat and his heart full of too many days and too much water. He was tired. Finally, at the edge of the ocean he stood while all of the barnacles caught up in his wings slid off one by one in a little procession.

The barnacles had become dry and cracked on the long journey but as they hit the sea one by one, each of the tiny hidden bodies replenished; a fleet who had found their journeys end now quickly overtaken by a new starting line. Boatbird had arrived at the beginning again, he heaved with the weight of his brave boat and gathered his last strength. He was on the run, from faraway seas that were no longer safe. His only hope to freedom was on the other side of the enormous stretch of water before him... 

Boatbird images by Lilly, words by Jo. Ideas, content, and response for images and words and the space between them belong to both artists. All rights reserved.(For all children on a difficult journey)