Anybody who is surprised at the current abundant outpouring of creative productivity as we emerge from the darkest hours of the pandemic, could not have been paying attention to what has been happening over the past two and a half years in T&T.
Somebody quipped on social media last week that
there was so much going on, she was spoilt for choice. This is simply the
outward, public outpouring of creative powers sharpened and harnessed over
months and months.
From Emancipation to Agri-Expo to Independence,
there have been scores of options. Online, community, national, NAPA, SAPA,
Naparima Bowl, Queen’s Hall, Little Carib, Black Box, Moriah, Speyside …
everywhere.
Music, dance, art, craft, drama, design, film
and literature “rooted deep within (our) Caribbean (bellies)” – to borrow from
poet extraordinaire, David Rudder. They never paused. Never went away. Even so,
“does it wash away all your unlovely?” the songwriter asks.
This has virtually been the singular strand of
hope along a spectrum of looming despair, cynicism, anger and hate – some of it
contrived and engineered to suit.
Some of us tuned in as bottled expression simply
could not be contained during the lockdown period. My own interests found sustenance
in music, poetry, and art. Mainly because of Jackie Hinkson and Teneka
Mohammed, I took to watercolours after more than 50 years.
I was there for Jackie’s Carnival murals –
filled as much with joy as with tears. I looked at Teneka hunched over the
table with brush in hand, her eyes fixed on careful, artful strokes. Go to ‘Art
Reframed – Celebrating 60!’ and see for yourself.
In one corner of the living room also stands a
tenor pan with which Mikhail reacquaints effortlessly.
Because of Duvone and Natasha and Aviel and
Johann and Dane, and numerous online pan recitals by others, I passed a few
lockdown moments, pan sticks in hand, on incompetently executed half-finished
songs. Followed what my Exodus and Birdsong peeps and others were up to. They
were all busy, busy. Playing, playing.
Dusted off the old music books for painful minutes
on the guitar. Mission aborted when the fingers failed. Yet, Gerelle and Adrian
and Chantal and numerous others were busy doing things. Guitars, keyboards,
drums, horns, voices, strings of all types.
Ordered 300g cold press for the paints. Kept
Patrick in the loop - Jackie and Teneka on the side-lines with advice on brush
sizes, quality paints, technique, technique, technique.
Helen Drayton found time to reboot ‘Hyarima
Lives’ in last Sunday’s poetry column, Gerelle Forbes worked with Mark Loquan
on Ray Holman’s biopic, and Geneva Drepaulsingh’s daring direction of the Zoom
performance of Victor Edward’s ‘Maniacs’ went where few ventured off the ‘live’
theatre stage.
Few found themselves yielding to silence or
inaction. Mikhail’s LightBox series thrived on the creative emotions of the
time. Look it up, those of you who chose surrender.
Fazeela wrote like crazy. Cassia took up her
paints. Adrian blew that saxophone furiously while Krisson “Seraphim” made sure
we never forgot calypso’s glorious roots.
People were writing books. I just got Ken
Jaikaransingh’s ‘The Mark of the Cane.’ Ira Mathur completed ‘Love the Dark
Days.’ Lance Dowrich, Lisa Allen-Agostini and many more. Right here in T&T.
The world never stopped spinning for many. Yet,
true, we need to be aware that for some, critical space and time remained
unavailable. It is good to recognise privilege; especially our own.
Victimised by both the virus and the measures
meant to combat it, many reached no further than songs and prayers and
expression within private spaces of grief and deprivation.
The loss of Bomber, Blaxx, Kenny J, Singing
Sandra, Winsford Devine, ‘Soso’ (over in St Vincent), and Brother Resistance
helped us ring the bells even louder – almost psychically connecting wider
tragedy and a will to triumph through creative expression.
In naming names, I face the risk of cruel
omission. But they all helped us through the deaths and the cruelties. They
drowned the messages of conflict and disaster and hopelessness.
On another occasion, we can discuss the
monetising of all this through a proper focus on creative industries as a
private sector exploit - minus the problematic, brokering role of the state.
Again, our national poet: “Can you hear a
distant drum bouncing on the laughter of a melody? /And does the rhythm tell
you, come, come, come, come? /Does your spirit do a dance to this symphony? /Does
it tell you that your heart is afire? /And does it tell you that your pain is a
liar? /Does it wash away all your unlovely? Well, are you ready for a brand new
discovery?”
I rather think we are.
