The peace of water, the smell of polish, the laughter of a common sensory memory.
It was a cold night when we finished up and I felt a sigh in the room – not of relief – but of satisfaction at the healing power of spending a few hours reading, discussing writing, something other. In my head I went through the steps of baking that cake I watched groups of men tumble out of pubs, laughing.Īs our workshop got going, I thought of what artist Georges Braque once said, that art is a wound turned to light. Later that evening as I walked past Stephen’s Green on up to Leeson Street towards the welcoming reception at the centre, Dublin city felt different, as if something had shifted. But as the election results unfurled across the news channels I knew I would not be baking. On my kitchen worktop lemons nestled in their net, flour unopened, butter out of the fridge and softened, and the caster sugar golden in the light: ingredients ready to become the cake to celebrate the election of a woman to the White House, and to be eaten at the end of a productive creative writing workshop. It was the day of my first residency workshop with the Dublin Rape Crisis Centre.
0 kommentar(er)
