On reading ‘The Ghost Limb’
I’ve been thrilled to witness such a positive response to The Ghost Limb, by our friend Claire Mitchell. I know how much a labour of the body and soul it has been for her and, of course, Bryonie and I welcome anything that complicates our received ideas about the past in the present, and points to the possibility of a different future.
Artwork by Peter Strain, created for the Belfast Entries project by Daisychain. Copyright Neal Campbell.
Every so often, I have snatched moments of time with Claire as her ideas for the book emerged and took shape. I was delighted she invited me to play a part in the story along the way; I got to share a project that is close to my heart and talk about what it meant for me to add to Belfast’s memory landscape. It also means a great deal to me to be connected, through the book, to such an inspirational bunch of changemakers. A few I knew already, others I’ve only just met, I hope I will get to know more. Elements of their journeys, as well as Claire’s own, overlap and connect with mine, in different ways. Reading the book has prompted me to reflect again on my background, on the people and events that brought me to where I am today.
I grew up in an overwhelmingly Protestant and Unionist community in North Down, but the stereotypical markers of that cultural identity did not play a role in my life. Our family were not subscribers to the main Protestant denominations, we did not participate in the Orange Order, we have no history of service in the military or the police, and my parents did not vote Unionist. Though both my mother and my father came from undeniably privileged middle-class backgrounds, money was an ever-present worry in our lives. Having left school without any real qualifications, my father’s employability prospects were limited, and he endured a protracted period of unemployment due to ill health. This financial disparity, alongside our family’s uncommon political and religious outlook, made me uncomfortable and unsure of myself in relation to my predominantly wealthy and staunchly unionist grammar school peers. Two inspirational teachers, in art and in history, opened my mind to alternative ways of thinking and being. Yet I could also see their efforts being stifled under the weight of a politically and socially conservative establishment.
By the time I left school, I already felt limited and claustrophobic, out of place in my own home place. Going to art college and moving to Belfast changed all that. Staying in Northern Ireland wasn’t what I had planned but, looking back, that experience proved pivotal in shaping the rest of my life so far. Suddenly, I was thrown into an environment where nobody really cared where you came from, or what school you went to, or what your parents did, or what religion, if any, you practised. Art college was a deliberately crafted oasis, set apart from and unanswerable to wider society. This was where I could find my own sense of self and place in the world. And it was the late 1990s, something different was in the air, things were changing, at least they seemed to be.
Artists, musicians, clubbers and the LGBTQ community had re-occupied parts of the city centre that had been abandoned and left to decay during the Troubles, creating new spaces for play and social interaction where others still felt unsafe. I grew fascinated by this shifting, multi-faceted, energetic counterculture, by how young people were demonstrating their determination to be and do things differently through what they wore, what they listened to and what they created.
And there was reason to hope for the future of our generation. There were leaders we might just be able to believe in, prepared to take risks, determined to make a difference. There was a chance, just maybe, that the violence that was an ever-present backdrop to our lives might come to an end.
The Good Friday Agreement is the first time I remember using my right to vote. I remember gathering with the throng in joyous celebration of ‘Yes’ in front of City Hall. I remember too quieter influencers and actors in the public sphere. I visited the 1798 bi-centennial exhibition at the Ulster Museum. A friend was studying in Dublin, and during a visit there I made time to visit the National Museum of Ireland’s version of that story at Collins Barracks. I noticed the differences between the two, in the imagery and language used, and how the context for and impacts of the rebellion differed north and south. I understood there was a political intention behind both exhibitions to support, in some way, the fragile peace-process. Perhaps that was when I first began to consider the role of museums in social change.
But perhaps what I have written here only demonstrates the fallibility of memory. It’s all too easy to draw a thread between the past and present in a way that suits what I want to believe. Nevertheless, I suspect there is an element of truth in there.
My fascination with material culture as a signifier of identity has endured, as has my curiosity about the powerful potential of the spaces between and beyond the dominant narratives in our society. I continue to wrestle with the relationship between heritage and politics, and what role museums, artists and educators can play in peace-building. This is what has driven me to seek opportunities to develop my practice through projects relating to the Plantation, the Decade of Centenaries, the Troubles, women’s history, and most recently the Good Friday Agreement. These are the ideas I am exploring with partners and participants in the Leadership in Contested Heritage Course at Corrymeela.
I understand now how deeply I care about this complicated place, its landscape, cultures and people. What started as an unintended circumstance has grown into a firm commitment to stay here, to help make this place better. Reading Claire’s book, I am glad to be reminded I am only one of many who feel the same.