My first visit to Gravesend

It is Monday 16 March 2020. In the UK there are 1543 confirmed cases of Coronavirus and 53 people have lost their lives.  The government advice is to wash your hands regularly and stay at home if you have any symptoms.

I’m travelling to Gravesend for a meeting. I’ve never been there before. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to get on a train and meet people I’ve not met before – it feels risky. I haven’t been anywhere for a few days, all my work as a participatory and community artist is being postponed or cancelled.  London is quieter than usual. The tube is quieter than usual. St Pancras is quieter than usual.  A man two seats away from me on the train coughs repeatedly throughout the journey without covering his face. I am anxious and have occasional oesophageal spasms, my Achalasia making its presence felt. I shouldn’t be making this journey until May, when I’m meant to arrive for the first time and stay for a month to explore Gravesham. Instead I’m going to pull up a chair and discuss changing, postponing or cancelling this residency that I was so excited to be offered. I’m feeling sad and scared.

 

I’m travelling to Gravesend for a meeting. I’ve never been there before. I’m really excited, anticipation is fizzing away. I’m going for a meeting about a month long residency in Gravesham, where I will pull up a chair and meet all sorts of people. I love people. I’m really excited to have time to think about what art and community (and community art) means. To discover a place. The residency is being hosted by a beautiful bright red lightship arts centre  called LV21. An actual ship. An actual lightship. An actual lightship on which people do art. I’ve put together a programme of self-development for this year, starting on the lightship and culminating in a project in my hometown. I’m waiting to hear about funding. I’m feeling bold and curious.

 

Both of these descriptions of my journey are true.

 

I arrive in Gravesend and walk through the town to LV21. I notice similarities with the town I grew up. Hints of a more affluent past, a mish mash of modern supermarkets and older buildings.  A hint of holiday vibes – a teashop, bunting. A river. I walk towards the water, the expanse of the brown Thames rolling past, definitely estuary here, you can smell the salt. I take a few photos of my first glimpses. I wonder if I’ll ever come back here again.

I’m welcomed aboard by Päivi. It’s the first time we’ve met in person. We don’t shake hands or come close to one another – this way of being with others is still new and there’s an awkwardness. I’m a bit early and get a tour of LV21. A utilitarian boat, tenderly being restored. It’s all huge lumps of painted black metal and smooth wood and coiled rope. The radio room with morse code tappers and strange dials. It smells of oil and engines and seaweed. And then there’s the matching red kettle, and the wood burning stove and the room of artwork. It feels purposeful and homely, I feel welcome.

 

Lucy and Emily from Quiet Down There arrive and we talk about what to do. The residency won’t go ahead in May. We don’t know what is coming when we meet but sense that in May everything will be about Coronavirus. We wonder if September or October might work and pencil in some dates.

 

I go for another explore while Lucy, Emily and Päivi discuss other business. There’s a little room at the top of the boat. It’s small and light, with a little table and windows. I can see lots of cruise ships docked at Tilbury. I can look out into the estuary. There’s a porthole. This is like my fantasy studio. I try to write but I’m all itchy and restless. I call Joe and talk him through the meeting, I realise I’m relieved that they don’t want to cancel. I don’t know when I’ll be back again. I go onto the deck and feel the wind and sun on my cheeks.

 

I call out my goodbyes and make my way back to the station, staying curious – what do I notice?

 

At 5pm that evening the government advises against all non-essential contact and travel, including going to the theatre. That night most theatres close.

 

I’m writing this on 12 June 2020. In the UK there are 292,950 confirmed cases of Coronavirus and 41,481 people have lost their lives.   I’ve not been further than two miles from my home, not been on public transport. Since 16 March, I’ve not sat as close to anyone other than Joe, and I’ve only met three other people, at a distance of 2 metres, all dear friends. I’ve virtually connected with neighbours I’ve never met to set up a local mutual aid group, and feel more embedded in my community than I ever have before.

 

What does community and art (and community art) mean now? What will it mean in October?