Art Exhibition Review from Mrs B

MrsB wrote this about ... well read it and you will see what it is about. I just thought it was wonderful and  moving review of what is obviously a wonderful and moving exhibition 

I had read about an art exhibition at the Royal Academy put on by Kids Co, with all the work produced by children who had suffered trauma, and decided to visit last weekend. 

As I entered the gallery my attention was immediately taken by a wall of shoe boxes, each one depicting a room that had meaning to the children. Picking up a catalogue I read the description of each and I was captivated.

I walked slowly through the exhibition over one and a half hours, absorbing the meanings and enjoying the skill that had been used to help the children express their stories. 

As I walked through the exhibition I was transported to dark places and then to places of love and light, to broken and shattered dreams and then to hope and potential.

Children who had lived on the streets hiding out in the tumble drier of the local launderette or making a mattress of a damp sand pit in the park rather than be at home with their abusive, addicted or ill carrers.  Children who had attended the funeral of a brother murdered in a stabbing and for whom gangs were still the family they felt safest with.

There was so much to take in and so many inspiring ideas to use in my work that I noted down every exhibit

– shoe box living – jack in the box, praising putting down – monsters under the bed – dreams

– nightmares – protectors – threats – life noise – I like – I don’t like – running track – roller coaster – whirlpool – metaphors – urban coliseum – wearing my emotions – dresses for anger – love - excitement – dream catchers – wish clouds – personal landscapes – brain maps- shelters and safe places – talismen – rizla packet park bench – self portraits – super heroes – personal hurdles – success stories – walk a mile in my shoes – memory and attachment - moving on letting go - potential – sabotage - unfinished business….

I thought she was leaving but then arrived in a small room, in the middle stood a pink bed with a princess duvet cover, lying on it a mannequin of a small girl in a pink nighty, above her head hung a mobile of men’s shoes.  

I stopped and caught my breath.

For every child who had had their innocence and right to safety stolen this was a haunting and powerful testament.

I held that thought and stood very still feeling utterly humbled.

Leaving the building I cut down through a Victorian arcade, its opulence jarring, the red carpet, the shop windows displaying perfumes, jewellry, rich people’s accoutrements seeming so out of synch with the darker, harsher and often hidden away realities of life  I had just witnessed.