The Bridge

In Rhonda. In Spain. To see the bridge. Insane. Huge, huge bridge. Grand. Over a tiny river. Having a coffee outside my little Arabic café. In the square. The tiny square in front of the huge church. A baby Hunchback of Notre Dame Church. In Calle Del Espiritu Santo. My styish modernised old town house is number 27. I look at the church when I pull back my concertina bedroom door. I’m having a mint tea, feta and spinach pastie, pistachio baklava, Coffee 2 homemade bonbons. £9.80.

Free

After a particularly great final workshop: Unpacking What MY MUM IS WHITE Meant to You, 19.09.25, K asks will I give a talk to her group. Yeah. Course. You do know I charge £350? She looks shocked. Laughs. She says I will pay you, but I thought you would do it for free. As I bend down to my final mind-map, the one that pulls it all together, I say all right I’ll do it for nothing. But why fucking should I? My knowledge is priceless, or you wouldn’t be asking me. Why the fuck should I give it away for free?

Last week I said I always think about money. I always feel a fraud when I tell the Art’s Council how much things are gonna cost. Excavating the Reno, the Reno at the Whitworth, I didn’t include all the extra time. The admin. For instance, it has taken 2 weeks to do my post MMIW emails. To control the accounts: projected and spent. To write these newsletters. I pull them together Saturday. Write them Sunday. Edit them Sunday night. Proofread them Monday morning. Nobody pays me for them. No wonder I am fucking broke most of the time. And constantly worried about money.

Treats to Change How I Relate to Dough.

A hire car, £350, 2 weeks; a cordless Dyson, £318: and Rhonda, around £250 are my treats for being such a genius. Meant to be enjoyed. I can spend money. Because I can earn money. I should charge for everything I do to be a successful artist.

During the excavation, I did endless social media. Hours of pastoral care. Just the fucking admin takes all day. To write a funding application takes 3 fucking months. To do it properly. Each fucking question is at least a day. Sometimes 3 days. By the time I align what they are asking with what I am offering.

Recently Quarantine gave me a gig. The Art of Assembly. Contact. Saturday 11.10.25. 2pm. You should come.  They are paying me £350 for the gig. Fuck all to read their website; watch their back catalogue; write my 20 mins presentation; have a phone conversation. 3 fucking days to do all that properly. 3 days when I can’t earn other money. My brain can only be in one fucking place.

 Free Labour

Okay, I am glad to have the gig. Exposure. But is it? I don’t go to their gigs. They don’t come to mine. No one’s got the time. So, I should ask to be paid for my time. It's not my fault they've remained a small art organisation. I am driving towards Rhonda when I realise — I don’t ask to be paid because free labour is running in my veins. In my DNA. Let me explain.

I really am the descendant of slaves.

1959. I am born.

1922. My dad is born.

1902. His mum is born. My nana. I’m counting generations as 20 years.

1882. Her mum is born. My great grandma.

1862. Her mum is born. My great great grandma.

1842. Her mum is born. My great great great grandma.

1822. Her mum is born in slavery. Slavery in Jamaica ends in 1834. My great great great great grandma.

I am 6 generations from slavery. In 1974 I see slavery. No gas, no electric, no running water. Shacks surrounding rock stones their stove. Black River their washing machine. My dad comes to the UK from slavery. Aged 35. He leaves slavery in 1957. The man who brought me up is pickled in the 8 Pillars of Caste.

The white man is due more because:

1.     Divine will and law of nature.

2.     Heritability.

3.     Endogamy. Well, he fucked that one off — he shagged a white woman.

4.     Purity versus pollution. I feel shame cos I am the evidence of her impurity.

5.     Occupational hierarchy. I can’t earn a buck cos I ain’t worth a buck.

6.     Dehumanisation and stigma. Is how I see myself till now.

7.     Terror as enforcement. There’s Shared Experience Polly Teale and the Whitworth’s Sam Lackey. I’ll tell you more when I talk about this pillar.

8.     Inherent superiority v inherent inferiority. Slaves don’t have treats.

The Gorge

I am engineering a bridge. Insane. A huge, huge bridge. Grand. Over a tiny river. A river that gouged a deep gorge.

7pm I have single malt whiskey, feta salad, chocolate torte pudding, coffee, at the hotel with the gorgeous view in my square. £37.

Each treat is a brick. Each payment demand the clay. These newsletters the design.