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We have already heard every story ever told. Like little kids who ask for the same tale over and over again, told exactly the same way, we too respond to hidden patterns. The elements that vibrate in us like a tuning fork - the stories that truly resonate are based on patterns deep in our DNA.

Named after a character in a book, story was important to me from the beginning. In my early work I explored ideas around having an internal story, a way of understanding your place in the world, contextualizing yourself. Everyone has a belief about who they are, It enables them to be happy with themselves. These ideas have been developed by Michael White and David Epston in narrative behavioural theory.

"We humans have evolved as a species to use mental narratives to organize, predict, and understand the complexities of our lived experiences."
Michael White

They found that by talking to people about their internal metaphors they could find a persons true belief about themselves and if needed they could reprogram this internal story, changing a negative story to a positive one. In my internal story I was a Princess. Growing up with Fairy Tales, I found myself expecting to meet a Prince and be swept away to live happily ever after.

I plan to analyse 3 projects that will bring an insight into my methodologies regarding storytelling. I will start with Tales from the Ivory Tower, it is the earliest and brings up many of the issues that I am still concerned with such as story, behavior, autobiography and disclosure.

Story is the wisdom that can guide you to your true destiny. All of the great myths, legends and fairy tales have that power. If you understand their secrets, they can guide you to a full
  realization of your self.
The exhibitions that came from these ideas were traditional white wall gallery shows, framed drawings hung at the right hight and right distance apart.
 There was a strong narrative, implying the search for the Prince, the feelings of disappointment and yearning. I found early on that exploring relationships was the most revealing way of exploring behavior. 
The drawings were small, the size of the illustrations in Fairy Tale books and the audience were guided by a catalogue, another book, that told them the story and led them around the show. In many of the images the figure was alone, isolated by being in the tower and isolated by her unrealistic expectations. The audience-artist relationship changed throughout the exhibition. Part of the gallery was transformed into the interior of the Ivory Tower in which the Princess was locked. The audience were invited to sit in the installation and feel for themselves the combination of a luxurious beautifully lit space, sparkling fabrics and soft fluffy pillows, contrasting with the claustrophobic, enclosed and restrictedness of being confined. 
I took up residency in the Tower, recreating the story of Rumplestiltskin.
 He captures a Princess and makes her turn straw into gold, I turned paper into gold. For 3 days I was forced to produce 100 drawings a day. Unable to leave the confines of the tower. The gallery owner brought me food and the audience came to observe my confinement. This self inflicted prison, gave me an internal freedom, released my subconscious mind and allowed me to delve deep into the metaphors that revealed my true self. 
A single image may generate multiple metaphoric possibilities, contributing an ensemble of interpretations that enrich the work with detonations and connotations and reward viewers who engaged in prolonged contemplation.

On the last day of the show the 300 artworks produced during the residency were hung on the Gallery walls and sold for gold coins. I had turned paper into gold and the cycle was complete. The audience had played the roles of being the jailed, the jailor and now the rescuer. When making this work it was beauty that I wanted to convey more than the emotion, simple lines on paper describe the naked forms with clarity, an idea would be drawn again and again until it was perfect, until it portrayed the form as clearly as posable, in as few lines as readable. The composition of each drawing kept minimal, the main character fills the square frame in most of the work. Sometimes interacting with one other character but often isolated. No unnecessary details are included, the lack of place allowing the viewer to imagine there own scenery. They are focused on the actions that occupy them, actions that are simple and everyday, they get ready for the arrival of the Prince, cleaning their teeth, washing their hair, but he never turns up. This use of story was both metaphorical and autobiographical and my work has continued to be based on this combination. 
My interactions with the audience had been based on an intimacy, they had been invited into my space to interact with my internal world. They treated this space with respect, because a gallery space asks for this courtesy. The work could be taken literally and enjoyed as pretty pictures, or it could be sat with and reflected upon, each viewer relating to their own story.
Viewers are as essential to art’s consequences as are artists and works of art. Furthermore, ....the audience’s expectations, values, tastes, and concerns are not necessarily after-effects or postscripts. They can affect artists’ conceptual initiation of works and their subsequent fabrication of them.

In contrast I want to move on to a work that also uses story as a metaphor but relates to the audience in a completely different way.
The Mermaid of Zennor
Zennor is on the North coast of Cornwall. It has a legend
 in which a mermaid, hearing the singing of a young man, was driven to leave the sea and struggle up to the church, walking on her tail, to listen to him sing in the choir. The myth attracts thousands of tourists every year, looking for a bit of magic.
I chose to respond to this legend by illustrating it through landscape interventions including pearl and coral beads strewn down the path to the coast representing the beads that the Mermaid pulled from her dress to distract the villagers from chasing them. A jumper unraveling, portraying the fisherman’s mom catching hold of her son to stop him running away, his jumper unraveling leaving him free to run into the sea with the mermaid. Music playing on the cliff-tops to symbolize the folklore that you can still hear Mathey Trewella singing love songs from his new home in the ocean. A box in Zennor Church mixed real photographs with faked ones of the mermaid, Interweaving truth with reality. 
Working with an unprepared audience was a complete contrast to working with an audience that had come into my space in Tales from the Ivory Tower. I had in effect gone into their space, uninvited, with the intention of disrupting it. I was aware that they could miss read the snippets of information they gained from the interventions, the beads could have been someone’s broken necklace, the jumper could have been that of a small child that had fallen from the cliff, The music could be noisy holiday makers with no regard for others. My aim was not to tell the story per se, I want to nudge the viewer out of their complacent reality, out of their comfort zone. I did not see a negative reaction as a bad reaction. How they react to this nudge is down to their own perception. If one person picked up one bead and put it in their pocket, pulled it out at a later date and smiled, that would be enough. 
If one person picked up a bead thinking they were saving a small animal from chocking, that would be ok too. If another person stopped thinking about their own problems and wondered what was going on, that would be great. Experience is a valid art form for me. Creating a reaction was my aim. 
Experience is not what happens to you. It is what you do with what happens to you.
I found the idea of aiming my work at an unsuspecting audience an interesting one. When the mind is primed for art by walking into a gallery it may also be closed to certain reactions. I believe that art received as a mistake, an accident or a natural phenomena is far more interesting. That split second when we are confused, is the key to questioning our reality. Our reading of the world is a reflection of our beliefs of the world. The world is not outside of us, it is a reflection of us. We only see what we are able to conceive of. Events do not have intrinsic qualities, only the qualities we embed them with from our own perspective. These ideas are both Buddhist and postmodern
We see things not as they are, but as we are.
The Mermaid is symbolic of a need for more, in myself and in society, for something deeper, the craving that man has to escape meaningless life. A need for magic and wonder. The mermaid comes from under the sea, symbolic of the unconscious mind.

Story is the wisdom that can guide you to your true destiny. All of the great myths, legends and fairy tales have that power. If you understand their secrets, they can guide you to a full realization of your self.
Black Journey
I want to go back to a gallery based show which progressed from the ideas played with in the previous two projects. Black Journey was an exhibition heavily laden with layers of emotion, narrative and autobiography. More emotional than the Princess exhibitions, more autobiographical than The Mermaid of Zennor. It pushed my work in both it’s interactions with the audience and it’s use of research as a foundation for a project. It consisted of five installations, each one in a different material. Each one described part of a real event but also a metaphorical journey. On one level it was trying to simply portray an event that happened. The initial installation consists of 3 bronze tissues titled the 1st, 2nd and 3rd August 2009
 alluring to the time span of the event, the use of bronze described the weightiness of the emotion in response to the event. 

Implying that the tears cried were so strong like Medusa’s stare they turn the tissue to stone. Fragility is turned to strength, disposable becomes precious. Something that could be made in seconds is replaced with a copy that takes days to construct. There is an element of magic as we saw in The Mermaid of Zennor. Transforming the world or escapism, it could be seen either way. The materials tell us this was an important event. As an opening piece it sets the tone for the rest of the exhibition. This is serious, were not playing around, bronze casts reference the ultimate art-form of the modernists. Something so cheap transformed into something so valuable.
Each of the five installations also relates to one of the five stages of grief, as described by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in her 1969 book, On Death and Dying. It describes, the 5 stages that the mind experiences when dealing with grief and loss.
 The piece was an attempt to move through my own journey relating to this event, the event is never fully described, leaving what happened down to interpretation.

Stories of people trying to sort out who they are figure prominently on the 
landscape of postmodern times.
The gallery space was set out so that you moved around in a clockwise direction, guided by the labels similar to Tales from the Ivory tower, this dictating to the audience how they should move is a conscious decision, letting them know they are in my space, they abide by my rules. People are easily manipulated. Tracey Emin often uses devices to make the viewer climb or crawl. The most famous may be Everyone I have ever slept with,
 but I have also climbed ladders and spied through peep holes to see her work.  
The second installation consisted of a spinning picture, the imagery barely visible as it moved, only glimpses were gained, leaving the viewer disorientated and frustrated, wanting more information. Mirroring the anger it represented. 
The third installation was a set of embroidered letters on decorated fabric backgrounds, large in scale from over a foot wide to over 8ft long, dragging on the floor, unable to be contained by the walls, they represented the bargaining part of the five stages, we beg God or whoever our higher being may be. Trying to make bargains for our peace to be reestablished. They are titled Dear Lee and words pour out raw emotion expressing the frustration of the author, more clues are given to the nature of the event that took place. The cotton thread that draws out the words turns from a strong pink, fading to an almost invisible pastel yellow, almost indistinguishable from the background which swirls with colour and pattern leaving the viewer again struggling to read the imagery. 
They are personal to the point that you feel you have violated some secret diary, worried that you may be caught. This level of disclosure and raw emotion is both repulsive and compelling. No distance is placed between the artist and the work so the viewer takes this to be real.

The fourth section, with a narrative of denial is represented by a large painting of a woman, she is dressed in what could be a ballet skirt and seems to be unstable on her feet. Is she falling over or just dancing? To the bottom of the picture is a small dreamlike image of a man, he is also unstable. The painting is monochrome, only her dress which is glossy as opposed to the matt of the rest of the picture, had a slightly yellow tinge to it. The lack of colour adds to the dreamlike quality. Parts of the canvass have no paint on them at all, we see the light coming through the thread like it is made from paper doilies, the image maybe decaying, falling apart. If this is denial then it’s breaking down already, it’s not going to last long. The painting looms over us, we have to look up to her, If she does fall we’ll have to catch her, this makes us feel uneasy.
The final part is a stained wooden flower press with a pink heart on the front and the words, The ups and down’s of a bipolar relationship scratched in to it in biro through a plastic stencil. It is a polemic story of a relationship the best times and the worst times filled with passion and heartache.
The tactile combination of materials drawing us in, longing to caress them. Some of the surfaces, have been created in a frenzy of activity as I try to get some representation of what I am feeling down on the material. I expect that surface to take on some of the emotion I am feeling through my interaction with it and I expect the viewer to be able to read that emotion from looking at it, just as if they had been reading a book. 
In this work the similarities between all people are brought to focus. I am reminded that I am not alone. The implications are that we are not just animals, that life is not an accident. Our capacity for pain, guilt and happiness separates us from animals. Human suffering is fascinating because it seems to be a sign that there is more to life than we are aware of. 
The lack of metaphorical space for the viewer to ponder upon their own experiences may have made the work appear too dictating. Too much information was given, it was too specifically about a certain relationship. This is something we may expect from Tracey Emin or Grayson Perry, in whose work we accept the pain of the artist as an acceptable form of art, maybe because we feel we know them, their fame puts them into the realm of celebrity where we want to know every little detail of their lives and mop it up with relish instead of being repelled by it. It may just be personal preference, some people like autobiography and disclosure and some people don’t. Reality magazines fill our shelves, reality TV, our homes, but they are not watched by everyone, and the novelty is wearing off as sales go down and Big Brother comes to it’s last series. Reality TV is as hated as it is loved and I think this exhibition brought about the same dual reaction.

While Emin certainly is making selected parts of her autobiography visible, it is the visitor who completes the work by projecting their own imagined ideas about her life and character, by speculating on what might have happened in the bed or in the tent.
Black Journey was trying to seduce the viewer into accepting my journey out of pain as a map with which they could find their own way out of pain. A map has a starting point, the place where you are, a road or path by which to travel down and places on the way as signs that you are going in the right direction, then an endpoint, a place where you are going, these where all mirrored as you walked around the exhibition. Guiding you on your own journey out of pain.
Really it was about me, illustrating a story, disclosing personal information to feel less isolated. Laced with urges and desires, pulling us out of the animal world and then sinking us back in.
It was about translating a negative experience into a positive one to learn from it, in order to continue to function in a Postmodern world in which we have little to hang on to. God is dead, Ideas seem fragile, we have nothing to grasp on to. I am part of a generation not only aware of our own mortality, unable to believe in a greater being but also aware of the fragility of reality. Particles are jumping from place to place through multiple universes. In this world it is the connections we make with others that are important, relationships hold our sanity in place. 
Emotional Detox by Marc Quinn used a similar technique, he includes lead casts from his body relating to his struggle to gain back his mental stability. His hook is the seven deadly sins.
 Which he uses in the way I used the 5 Stages of grief, mixing them with his own experience. it differed from Tales from the Ivory Tower in that it was far more revealing of intimate details of the artists life, it relied on these details to seduce the viewer into wanting to know more.

I illustrate stories, my own and other peoples. Translating experience into pictures so that others can relate to those experiences. 
Joseph Campbell is an inspiration for how the knowledge of stories can bring wisdom and understanding of our human condition. The world is confusing, being human is confusing, I make art to understand it. I have a strong belief that no-one is truly individual, we can all be described in a few types.
 Therefore I represent many and by understanding myself I can understand many, maybe even the whole and my work may guide one unsuspecting viewer on their own journey to self discovery.
As research has grown more influential, I feel that the work I made purely based on my own experience, my own feelings and observations may have been more true to myself than work that was based on research, on outside influences. While research may justify work in the art world, it does not automatically make it better. If we take the 3 projects I have described, Tales from The Ivory Tower was perhaps the least researched, unless you count a childhood of reading fairy tales as research? The effect was that you encountered in the work my true feelings. The process of drawing what comes out for a prolonged periods of time causes subconscious imagery to be freed. On the other hand, The Mermaid of Zennor was driven by external forces from the beginning. It was a necessity to produce a piece of work in this place, finding a story that I found an affinity with was not the same as portraying my own story as I had always done before. In doing this project I learnt a lot about my own ability to stay true to myself and not get distracted by others concerns, to really consider what a project is about and not want cheap thrills. I managed to find in an external story layers of meaning that would not have been there if I had purely illustrated my own story.
My use of research grew more involved after The Mermaid of Zennor but it is a double edged sword. In Black Journey the use of The Five stages of Grief integrated into the story did add to it’s power. For me it changed it from a story to a map, a piece of guidance. This made it more rewarding for me as the artist and possibly more accessible for the audience. It also takes some of the integrity away from the work, it is a devise. How comfortable I feel with it will come from my future projects.
Appendix 1
Rumpelstiltskin by The Brothers Grimm
Once there was a miller who was poor, but who had a beautiful daughter. Now it happened that he had to go and speak to the king, and in order to make himself appear important he said to him, "I have a daughter who can spin straw into gold."
     The king said to the miller, "That is an art which pleases me well, if your daughter is as clever as you say, bring her to-morrow to my palace, and I will put her to the test."
     And when the girl was brought to him he took her into a room which was quite full of straw, gave her a spinning-wheel and a reel, and said, "Now set to work, and if by to-morrow morning early you have not spun this straw into gold during the night, you must die."
     Thereupon he himself locked up the room, and left her in it alone. So there sat the poor miller's daughter, and for the life of her could not tell what to do, she had no idea how straw could be spun into gold, and she grew more and more frightened, until at last she began to weep.
     But all at once the door opened, and in came a little man, and said, "Good evening, mistress miller, why are you crying so?"
     "Alas," answered the girl, "I have to spin straw into gold, and I do not know how to do it."
     "What will you give me," said the manikin, "if I do it for you?"
     "My necklace," said the girl.
     The little man took the necklace, seated himself in front of the wheel, and whirr, whirr, whirr, three turns, and the reel was full, then he put another on, and whirr, whirr, whirr, three times round, and the second was full too. And so it went on until the morning, when all the straw was spun, and all the reels were full of gold.
     By daybreak the king was already there, and when he saw the gold he was astonished and delighted, but his heart became only more greedy. He had the miller's daughter taken into another room full of straw, which was much larger, and commanded her to spin that also in one night if she valued her life. The girl knew not how to help herself, and was crying, when the door opened again, and the little man appeared, and said, "What will you give me if I spin that straw into gold for you?"
     "The ring on my finger," answered the girl.
     The little man took the ring, again began to turn the wheel, and by morning had spun all the straw into glittering gold.
     The king rejoiced beyond measure at the sight, but still he had not gold enough, and he had the miller's daughter taken into a still larger room full of straw, and said, "You must spin this, too, in the course of this night, but if you succeed, you shall be my wife."
     Even if she be a miller's daughter, thought he, I could not find a richer wife in the whole world.
     When the girl was alone the manikin came again for the third time, and said, "What will you give me if I spin the straw for you this time also?"
   "I have nothing left that I could give," answered the girl.
     "Then promise me, if you should become queen, to give me your first child."
     Who knows whether that will ever happen, thought the miller's daughter, and, not knowing how else to help herself in this strait, she promised the manikin what he wanted, and for that he once more spun the straw into gold.
     And when the king came in the morning, and found all as he had wished, he took her in marriage, and the pretty miller's daughter became a queen.
     A year after, she brought a beautiful child into the world, and she never gave a thought to the manikin. But suddenly he came into her room, and said, "Now give me what you promised."
     The queen was horror-struck, and offered the manikin all the riches of the kingdom if he would leave her the child. But the manikin said, "No, something alive is dearer to me than all the treasures in the world."
     Then the queen began to lament and cry, so that the manikin pitied her.
     "I will give you three days, time," said he, "if by that time you find out my name, then shall you keep your child."
     So the queen thought the whole night of all the names that she had ever heard, and she sent a messenger over the country to inquire, far and wide, for any other names that there might be. When the manikin came the next day, she began with Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar, and said all the names she knew, one after another, but to every one the little man said, "That is not my name."
     On the second day she had inquiries made in the neighborhood as to the names of the people there, and she repeated to the manikin the most uncommon and curious. Perhaps your name is Shortribs, or Sheepshanks, or Laceleg, but he always answered, "That is not my name."
     On the third day the messenger came back again, and said, "I have not been able to find a single new name, but as I came to a high mountain at the end of the forest, where the fox and the hare bid each other good night, there I saw a little house, and before the house a fire was burning, and round about the fire quite a ridiculous little man was jumping, he hopped upon one leg, and shouted -
     'To-day I bake, to-morrow brew,
     the next I'll have the young queen's child.
     Ha, glad am I that no one knew
     that Rumpelstiltskin I am styled.'"

   You may imagine how glad the queen was when she heard the name. And when soon afterwards the little man came in, and asked, "Now, mistress queen, what is my name?"
     At first she said, "Is your name Conrad?"
     "Is your name Harry?"
     "Perhaps your name is Rumpelstiltskin?"
     "The devil has told you that! The devil has told you that," cried the little man, and in his anger he plunged his right foot so deep into the earth that his whole leg went in, and then in rage he pulled at his left leg so hard with both hands that he tore himself in two.

Appendix 2
The Mermaid of Zennor
The village of Zennor lies upon the windward coast of Cornwall. The houses cling to the hillside as if hung there by the wind. Waves still lick the ledges in the coves, and a few fishermen still set out to sea in their boats.
In times past, the sea was both the beginning and the end for the folk of Zennor. It gave them fish for food and fish for sale, and made a wavy road to row from town to town. Hours were reckoned not by clocks but by the ebb and flow of the tide, and months and years ticked off by the herring runs. The sea took from them, too, and often wild, sudden storms would rise. Then fish and fisherman alike would be lost to an angry sea.
At the end of a good day, when the sea was calm and each boat had returned with its share of fish safely stowed in the hold, the people of Zennor would go up the path to the old church and give thanks. They would pray for a fine catch on the morrow, too. The choir would sing, and after the closing hymn the families would go.
Now, in the choir that sang at Evensong there was a most handsome lad named Mathew Trewella. Not only was Mathew handsome to the eyes, his singing was sweet to the ears as well. His voice pealed out louder than the church bells, and each note rang clear and true. It was always Mathew who sang the closing hymn.
Early one evening, when all the fishing boats bobbed at anchor, and all the fisher families were in church and all the birds at nest, and even the waves rested themselves and came quietly to shore, something moved softly in the twilight. The waves parted without a sound, and, from deep beneath them, some creature rose and climbed out onto a rock, there in the cove of Zennor. It was both a sea creature and a she-creature. For, though it seemed to be a girl, where the girl's legs should have been was the long and silver-shiny tail of a fish. It was a mermaid, one of the daughters of Llyr, king of the ocean, and her name was Morveren.
Morveren sat upon the rock and looked at herself in the quiet water, and then combed all the little crabs and seashells from her long, long hair. As she combed, she listened to the murmur of the waves and wind. And borne on the wind was Mathew's singing.
"What breeze is there that blows such a song?" wondered Morveren. But then the wind died, and Mathew's song with it. The sun disappeared, and Morveren slipped back beneath the water to her home.
The next evening she came again. But not to the rock. This time she swam closer to shore, the better to hear. And once more Mathew's voice carried out to sea, and Morveren listened.
"What bird sings so sweet?" she asked, and she looked all about. But darkness had come, and her eyes saw only shadows.
The next day Morveren came even earlier, and boldly. She floated right up by the fishermen's boats. And when she heard Mathew's voice, she called, "What reed is there that pipes such music?"
There was no answer save the swishing of the water round the skiffs.
Morveren would and must know more about the singing. So she pulled herself up on the shore itself. From there she could see the church and hear the music pouring from its open doors. Nothing would do then but she must peek in and learn for herself who sang so sweetly.
Still, she did not go at once. For, looking behind her, she saw that the tide had begun to ebb and the water pull back from the shore. And she knew that she must go back, too, or be left stranded on the sand like a fish out of water.
So she dived down beneath the waves, down to the dark sea cave where she lived with her father the king. And there she told Llyr what she had heard.
Llyr was so old he appeared to be carved of driftwood, and his hair floated out tangled and green, like seaweed. At Morveren's words, he shook that massive head from side to side.
"To hear is enough, my child. To see is too much."
"I must go, Father," she pleaded, "for the music is magic."
"Nay," he answered. "The music is man-made, and it comes from a man's mouth. We people of the sea do not walk on the land of men."
A tear, larger than an ocean pearl, fell from Morveren's eye. "Then surely I may die from the wanting down here."
Llyr sighed, and his sigh was like the rumbling of giant waves upon the rocks; for a mermaid to cry was a thing unheard of and it troubled the old sea king greatly.
"Go, then," he said at last, "but go with care. Cover your tail with a dress, such as their women wear. Go quietly, and make sure that none shall see you. And return by high tide, or you may not return at all."
"I shall take care, Father!" cried Morveren, excited. "No one shall snare me like a herring!"
Llyr gave her a beautiful dress crusted with pearls and sea jade and coral and other ocean jewels. It covered her tail, and she covered her shining hair with a net, and so disguised she set out for the church and the land of men.
Slippery scales and fish's tail are not made for walking, and it was difficult for Morveren to get up the path to the church. Nor was she used to the dress of an earth woman dragging behind. But get there she did, pulling herself forward by grasping on the trees, until she was at the very door of the church. She was just in time for the closing hymn. Some folks were looking down at their hymnbooks and some up at the choir, so, since none had eyes in the backs of their heads, they did not see Morveren. But she saw them, and Mathew as well. He was as handsome as an angel, and when he sang it was like a harp from heaven -- although Morveren, of course, being a mermaid, knew nothing of either. So each night thereafter, Morveren would dress and come up to the church, to look and to listen, staying but a few minutes and always leaving before the last note faded and in time to catch the swell of high tide. And night by night, month by month, Mathew grew taller and his voice grew deeper and stronger (though Morveren neither grew nor changed, for that is the way of mermaids). And so it went for most of a year, until the evening when Morveren lingered longer than usual. She had heard Mathew sing one verse, and then another, and begin a third. Each refrain was lovelier than the one before, and Morveren caught her breath in a sigh. It was just a little sigh, softer than the whisper of a wave. But it was enough for Mathew to hear, and he looked to the back of the church and saw the mermaid. Morveren's eyes were shining, and the net had slipped from her head and her hair was wet and gleaming, too. Mathew stopped his singing. He was struck silent by the look of her -- and by his love for her. For these things will happen. Morveren was frightened. Mathew had seen her, Her father had warned that none must look at her. Besides, the church was warm and dry, and merpeople must be cool and wet. Morveren felt herself shriveling, and turned in haste from the door.
"Stop!" cried Mathew boldly. "Wait!" And he ran down the aisle of the church and out the door after her.
Then all the people turned, startled, and their hymn-books fell from their laps.
Morveren tripped, tangled in her dress, and would have fallen had not Mathew reached her side and caught her.
"Stay!" he begged. "Whoever ye be, do not leave!"
Tears, real tears, as salty as the sea itself, rolled down Morveren's cheeks.
"I cannot stay. I am a sea creature, and must go back where I belong."
Mathew stared at her and saw the tip of her fish tail poking out from beneath the dress. But that mattered not at all to him.
"Then I will go with ye. For with ye is where I belong."
He picked Morveren up, and she threw her arms about his neck. He hurried down the path with her, toward the ocean's edge.
And all the people from the church saw this.
"Mathew, stop!" they shouted. "Hold back!"
"No! No, Mathew!" cried that boy's mother.
But Mathew was bewitched with love for the mermaid, and ran the faster with her toward the sea.
Then the fishermen of Zennor gave chase, and all others, too, even Mathew's mother. But Mathew was quick and strong and outdistanced them. And Morveren was quick and clever. She tore the pearls and coral from her dress and flung them on the path. The fishermen were greedy, even as men are now, and stopped in their chase to pick up the gems. Only Mathew's mother still ran after them. The tide was going out. Great rocks thrust up from the dark water. Already it was too shallow for Morveren to swim. But Mathew plunged ahead into the water, stumbling in to his knees. Quickly his mother caught hold of his fisherman's jersey. Still Mathew pushed on, until the sea rose to his waist, and then his shoulders. Then the waters closed over Morveren and Mathew, and his mother was left with only a bit of yarn in her hand, like a fishing line with nothing on it. Never again were Mathew and Morveren seen by the people of Zennor. They had gone to live in the land of Llyr, in golden sand castles built far below the waters in a blue-green world. But the people of Zennor heard Mathew. For he sang to Morveren both day and night, love songs and lullabies. Nor did he sing for her ears only. Mathew learned songs that told of the sea as well. His voice rose up soft and high if the day was to be fair, deep and low if Llyr was going to make the waters boil. From his songs, the fishermen of Zennor knew when it was safe to put to sea, and when it was wise to anchor snug at home. There are some still who find meanings in the voices of the waves and understand the whispers of the winds. These are the ones who say Mathew sings yet, to them that will listen.
Appendix 3
The five stages of grief
Denial — "I feel fine."; "This can't be happening, not to me."
Denial is usually only a temporary defense for the individual. This feeling is generally replaced with heightened awareness of situations and individuals that will be left behind after death
Anger — "Why me? It's not fair!"; "How can this happen to me?"; "Who is to blame?"
Once in the second stage, the individual recognizes that denial cannot continue. Because of anger, the person is very difficult to care for due to misplaced feelings of rage and envy. Any individual that symbolizes life or energy is subject to projected resentment and jealousy.
Bargaining — "Just let me live to see my children graduate."; "I'll do anything for a few more years."; "I will give my life savings if..."
The third stage involves the hope that the individual can somehow postpone or delay death. Usually, the negotiation for an extended life is made with a higher power in exchange for a reformed lifestyle. Psychologically, the individual is saying, "I understand I will die, but if I could just have more time..."
Depression — "I'm so sad, why bother with anything?"; "I'm going to die . . . What's the point?"; "I miss my loved one, why go on?"
During the fourth stage, the dying person begins to understand the certainty of death. Because of this, the individual may become silent, refuse visitors and spend much of the time crying and grieving. This process allows the dying person to disconnect oneself from things of love and affection. It is not recommended to attempt to cheer up an individual who is in this stage. It is an important time for grieving that must be processed.
Acceptance — "It's going to be okay."; "I can't fight it, I may as well prepare for it."
This final stage comes with peace and understanding of the death that is approaching. Generally, the person in the fifth stage will want to be left alone. Additionally, feelings and physical pain may be non-existent. This stage has also been described as the end of the dying struggle.
Kübler-Ross originally applied these stages to people suffering from terminal illness, later to any form of catastrophic personal loss (job, income, freedom). This may also include significant life events such as the death of a loved one, divorce, drug addiction, an infertility diagnosis, as well many tragedies and disasters.
According to George Bonanno, professor of clinical psychology of Columbia University, in his book "The Other Side of Sadness: What the New Science of Bereavement Tells Us About Life After a Loss," based on two decades of rigorous scientific studies that follow people who have suffered losses in the U.S. and in other cultures, there is no evidence to support the Kübler-Ross theory. A 2000-2003 study of bereaved individuals conducted by Yale University obtained some findings that were consistent with the five-stage theory and others that were inconsistent with it. Several letters were also published in the same journal criticizing this research and arguing against the stage idea. Skeptic Magazine published the findings of the Grief Recovery Institute, which contested the concept of stages of grief as they relate to people who are dealing with the deaths of people important to them.

James Bonnet, Stealing Fire From The Gods, A Dynamic New Story Model for Writers and Filmmakers (Michael Wiese Productions, 1999),
H.M.Tomlinson, Braudes’s Handbook of Stories for Toastmasters and Speakers, 1957.
Blake Snyder, Save the Cat! Goes To The Movies, The Screenwriters Guide To Every Story Ever Told. Michael Wiese Productions, 2007.
Barbara Steiner and Jun Yang, Autobiography, Thames & Hudson.
Linda Weintraub, Making contemporary Art, How Modern Artists Think and work, Thames & Hudson.
Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973),

Joseph Campbell and the power of myth / Disc II : Episodes IV to VI / Sacrifice and bliss/ Love and the Goddess/ Masks of eternity / series producer Catherine Tatge / interviews by Bill Moyers / with Joseph Campbell.
Further Reading
The Narrative Turn in Social Inquiry: Toward a Storytelling Sociology, Ronald J. Berger and Richard Quinney 
Epston, D. Freeman, J. & Lobovits, D. (1997) Playful Approaches to Serious Problems. New York; Norton
Morgan, A. (2000) What is Narrative Therapy? – an easy to read introduction. Adelaide; Dulwich Centre Publications
Payne, M. (2000) Narrative Therapy                                                           Sage books.
White, M. & Epston, D. (1990) Narrative Means to Therapeutic Ends. New York; Norton.

Jain McKay
Phone: 07772 676789


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