The Off-Cuts

The Off-Cuts written by Sera Dormir.

Every artist, at some point in their lives, feels a deep desire to be taken seriously.

To have themselves and their life-long pursuit, held up by the masses, in the highest form of praise, as an established, serious artist.

Artists, including myself, are wedged between two immovable forces: crippling insecurity and unfathomably confidence. It is our unwavering love, or one might argue, stubbornness, that we insist on attending to our art with a degree of solemn seriousness.

So much so that we ourselves have taken a pair of scissors to the art world and divided ourselves up into two separate groups. High art: for the respected, educated and cultured amongst us. And to some, the dreaded, lesser art, that is craft based art. The Off-Cuts.

I want to take you back in time. Through the scrapbook of my crafty years. Starting in the millennium. The year 2000.

A cold, dark winter’s afternoon in England. The sky is grey and uninspiring.

Cut to a garage that appears to have been converted into an elf workshop. A landfill of metallic sweet wrappers and last week's recycling is piled up on a barely distinguishable table. There’s a rustle, some soft snaps and a quiet mutter.

‘Oh yes, here it is!’

Ferreting through the bottles, bags and loo roll holders, a small child's head pokes out of the a pile of newspaper cuttings. That’s me. I’m 5 years old. And this, is my paradise.

There’s a symphony of snips, swipes and slices. I wave my scissors around like a conductor. It is almost ready. Just time to add the final trimmings. My bowl cut is bobbing around as I dice a turkey tray into quarters and scatter the cuttings onto the final piece.

I stand back in awe of my creation.

I enter the kitchen. Here I await my reviews. In one hand, I hold my instrument of choice, my shining pair of scissors. With the other held out I direct the disinterested eyes of my parents to the sliced up and stuck together structure, I like to call... my masterpiece!

A moment of silence as the critics collect their thoughts.

This is the moment I have been waiting for. Four hours furiously cutting and sticking has all come down to this.

My father sniggers slightly, shakes his head. Before slinking upstairs. My mother demands that I leave that thing outside and get ready for dinner.

I pause slightly... perhaps she might have something else more constructive to add.

The peas boil over. My mother slams the sauce pan down and screams

“DINNER IS READY”

She drains the peas. The steam rises.

I let out a heavy sigh. Like a defeated samurai, I drag my scissors and my masterpiece back to the battle ground.

Here, I am left alone, to collect my disappointment.

Flick through the scrapbook to 2003.

I’m 8 years old now. At School, It’s lunch time. But I am not allowed to go out and play today.

“What is this?” shrieks my teacher.

She reaches into my drawer and pulls out a small collage. Cuttings of lime green, yellow circles and triangles of shiny mirror card, mounted on a raspberry pink board.

“I thought I would the off-cuts” I say.

“Is this what I asked you to do!” she bellows.

Before I have time to answer she unravels a declaration of disapproval on me. I gaze off into my creation. I’m admiring the swirly pink border, the balance of colour, the subtle use of yellow. I’m reminded of one of Grandma’s broken tiles.

My daydream is abruptly interrupted.

“Well, go outside before I change my mind and I don't want to catch you doing this again!”

Needless to say, I would continue to cut out and create many more creations. From magazine mosaics, to cardboard robots, to teenage scrapbooks. In the years to follow I would escape the barking and snarling of my parents, hide away from the pressures of social life, and spend seasons of love cocooned in the curly, off-cuts of my paradise.

Skipping the scrapbook forward again. 11 years later.

I tried at Art School to adopt the seriousness everyone insisted on us having. I abandoned anything associated with craft, I stuck ‘ism’ on the end of every word and perfected my don't-interrupt-me-I-am-thinking-about-art face.

No matter how hard I tried. I still felt like an outcast.

On the weekends, I worked at my local supermarket. One morning, the seedy shop floor manager sneers at me.

“I have a job for you”

I reluctantly followed him upstairs to the office.

“You’re an artsy type” he mocks. He turns to face an empty notice board.

“Cutting and sticking. That’s your sort of thing, right?”

He taps on a large pile of operational documents. I stare blankly at him.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, perform your magic.”

I am alone, bewildered and beguiled. Scissors in hands. I look like a teenage girl who just cut bangs for the first time and it didn’t go to plan. I am left trying to untangle this humiliating conundrum.

I really do love cutting and sticking. But for some reason, this time, the words cut deep.

Tying up loose ends.

It’s 2021.

14 months in lockdown and I’ve entertained every possible use for my trusty pair of scissors. Including the lockdown haircut!

I’ve made mood boards, bunting, costumes, postcards, invites, t-shirt designs...

After losing my job in the pandemic and took up childcare.

Boy, did those scissors come in handy. Together we made Yinka Ilori inspired collages, Yayoi Kusama spotted cardboard sculptures, medieval crowns, space age dresses... The list of cut out creations is endless.

Sure, I still get people asking me.

“Are you still doing all those arty things”

But I'm not offended and I don't coil away from it anymore. In fact, I embrace it.

I love being a crafty, arty's type. It makes me feel like that bowl cut kid again. It takes me back to year 2000 and my cardboard cut-out happy place.

And that joy cuts through a minefield of nonsense. All those that are loudly boasting that 'high art' is and will always be the most respected form of art. Those that strong-holds 'high art' in a fort of confusing lingo and preposterous rules. That gate keeps the art world, for a select, special group of the most serious artists. Who gallivant in their bloated prices, of frankly, mostly, lacklustre art. While prudishly turning away from the innocence and magic that is 'low art'.

When I'm lost in the throws of creation, I often think about all the crafty kids, moody-artsy teens, curiously creative adults, right the way through to nostalgic oldies.

And I can't help but think, aren't that they're all serious artists.

Somewhere, everywhere, across the globe, in bedrooms, workshops, schools, hospitals, care homes and even the most serious of Art Schools, there are some off-cuts. Just quietly snipping and slicing away. Scrapbooking, collaging, card marking, costume creating, knitting, decorating- gosh almighty! Cutting and sticking!

The Edward Scissorhands' of the art world are adding their final touches to their delightful masterpieces.

Let it be known, I want no part in all of that seriousness. For it casts a shadow over the joy that exists, in the highest form of art, that is 'low art'.

THE END