Over the weekend, I attended a Found Poetry workshop at the Berlin Soup Festival. I had no idea what Found Poetry was, but I'm always delighted when I find a poem, so I figured it'd be fun to attend.
A small group of us gathered on the terrace of a gallery space, above the chaotic intersection at Kottbusser Tor. Poet Kim Morrissey explained that Found Poetry is written by lifting words from an existing narrative and rearranging them into a poem, which reflects the intention of the original author's work.
While I was disappointed that this process didn't involve a Dadaistic process using scissors and glue, it was lovely to play with someone else's work. Our source text was Christopher Isherwood's Berlin Stories. It felt a little sacrilegious repurposing Isherwood's work, but the results of the group were beautiful and surprisingly diverse, given that we were all drawing from the same material.
The Isherwood passage selected by Morrissey describes the Berlin tenements in the early 1930s. My current work-in-progress swayed my thoughts away from the misery of Berlin's poor, and to the doom awaiting them. Isherwood's 'chalk-marked for the hopping game "Heaven and Earth"' was particularly foreboding. It wouldn't be long before the people of Berlin were marked for life and death.
Despite the grim subject matter and the group's tendency towards the macabre, we spent the afternoon laughing. Writing poetry demands such an extreme level of focus and precision, that I never thought interesting work would arise in a group context, especially with the distractions of a noisy street and an over-excited French bulldog. With the exception of a few Edward Gorey inspired dabbles, I'd never viewed writing poetry as fun. But as I left for the day and wandered into Berlin, not far from Isherwood's attic room at Hallesches Tor, I was filled with the kind of energy that comes from play. Next time writing about Berlin in the 1930s becomes too depressing, I'll pick up my copy of Isherwood's work and write a poem, sans scissors.
I spent last month working on a novel in Haukijärvi, Finland, at a creative centre called Arteles. Haukijärvi is a rural area. Behind Arteles is a forest of birch and pine. In front of it is a field leading to a frozen lake. Tampere – the closest city – is a 46 kilometre drive. There’s no bus stop, train station or shop of any kind within walking distance, and in March the roads are still too icy for cycling. In short, I spent the past month in Writers’ Paradise: a place of isolation.
When I arrived on the first day of March, the quietness of Haukijärvi greeted me. Although winter had mellowed, the snow was still thick. There was no birdsong or insect-hum. Even the air seemed to have stilled: the leaves didn’t rustle; the lake’s surface was set in shallow ripples. Only the falling snow betrayed the air’s secret movements. I have never before experienced such a motionless landscape. It was an incredible relief after months in Berlin.
In her keynote address at Australia’s inaugural National Writers’ Congress, Anna Funder noted that writers need time and space. Arteles provided me with an abundance of both. Before my arrival, I had visions of long hours at the desk, engaged in focused writing. In reality, this didn’t happen because it didn’t need to. I could read for an hour over breakfast. I could walk along the dirt roads, where pedestrians outnumbered vehicles. I could socialise with my fellow residents. And I still had time to write, and to write well, without the pressure of squeezing my creative work into small spaces in my diary.
A writer never needs much physical space. I like to spread out: I keep multiple and illogically ordered notebooks. I’m regularly overrun by index cards covered in corrections and ideas. But in truth, I can work in a space just large enough to hold my laptop. What I don’t always have though is headspace. Before my residency, I’d spent four months in Berlin wrestling with the challenge of moving to a foreign city on a whim. At Arteles, I no longer had to worry about bureaucracy, or proactively making new friends, or navigating through an unfamiliar environment. Being removed from my new life and its difficulties allowed me to reconnect with my characters and their own circumstances.
One advantage of a month-long residency in a remote region is that you don’t have to justify thinking time. There were days when I spent only a few hours behind the keyboard. But as I walked through the forest and across the fields, my characters walked beside me. I could unravel their natures and motivations. I could identify and solve narrative problems. The creative benefits of walking are well documented. For me, walking alone – really alone where I don’t even pass another walker – amplifies these benefits. I love Berlin for its endless parks and pathways, but to be outside and so alone is a luxury that I’ll miss enormously.
A longer residency also gave me the space to think about other projects. In ‘normal life’, I feel pressured to focus on my biggest project, which is currently a YA novel set in Germany in 1932. Research for this novel has been a major project in itself, and one which self-propagates. But at Arteles, I allowed myself to work on pieces not intended for publication. Nearly every day, I spent ten minutes writing non-stop about anything and nothing. I had two rules for this exercise: I wasn’t allowed to write about myself, and I had to write non-stop. Some days, my writing was boring, pedestrian drivel. Other days, something interesting arose. Scenes for the next novel I’m planning began to appear. New characters introduced themselves. I wasn’t surprised when birch forests, lakes and snow worked their way onto the page.
I also had the time to plan some other projects – the fun, community ones that have been circling my mind for a while, and that I might have time to pursue in my new life. Thinking about these smaller projects felt overly indulgent with so much other work to do. But if I’d already reached my writing goal for the day, I allowed myself to put my manuscript aside. I enjoyed doing this: the novel explores some difficult themes and sitting with them for too long is depressing. Stepping away without guilt or stress generated more energy for the next day.
Being marooned in a Finnish forest with eight other creative folk could be disastrous if personalities clashed, but I found myself in wonderful company. I’m very good at staying in my writer’s cave, particularly when I have a target to reach by a set date. But when I did emerge, I had the opportunity to spend time with an intelligent and insightful group of individuals, who all look at the world in a different way to me. And this is what I love – the chance to learn about the world someone else sees.
Many of the other residents worked in text-based art forms, but were primarily performance and visual artists, working with paint, ink, graphite, found objects, film, movement, chain mail and puzzles. Each conversation broadened my understanding of other art forms and practices. And of course, we had lots of fun hanging out, taking mini-road trips and assisting with puzzle-making under the direction of the Puzzle Master. One night we stood together while wishes were granted: the Aurora Borealis rippled green over our heads. We may never see each other again, but we’ll always be attached through that memory.
Each of us received a blessing on our final Sunday together: a page we’d contributed to a resident’s art-book, accompanied by text of her own creation that spoke to our work. The text given to me explored the ability not only to make choices, but to consciously break them. It’s a timely reminder as I re-enter life in Berlin, where the future feels more ambiguous than ever before. I tell myself that the experience is good for me, that it feeds my creative work. But I’m grateful for this month of respite in the Finnish forest, with the birch trees and the silence and the snow. You can write a novel anywhere, but it’s rare to have the time and space to write on your own terms.
Access the Arteles Residency artists' catalogue here.