Ursa Major Ursa Minor

He was my bear, a hulk, a mess of a man. Dark hair, sharp claws digging deep into my honey-hair. There was always a little part of me that was afraid of him, one swipe and my face would be slashed, my chest bruised, my arms aching. But he never hit me, not once. I had been with men like that, sneaking, small looking men. Men who had pinched and scratched my arms, men who hurt me with their sneering words. But my bear, gingerly balanced on his hind legs, his mouth opened in a snarl, never hurt me.

We would play, rolling through pine needles and mud. Sometimes it got a little rough, but he knew when to stop, he never took my ‘yes’ for granted. I was shorter than him, shorter than most people, so he was always careful. Yet, he did not treat me like a little piece of porcelain, easily broken and shattered. He knew a girl like me wasn’t like that. He could toy with me, make me get dirty knees and rough fingertips. I knew I was more beautiful now than I had ever been, leaves and grass caught in my hair, grime under my nails, clothes ripped and muscles lean and strong.

I did like our den, hidden away, south facing. A sweet scent of pine and the river, where he would go daily and get us fish, or hunt through the woods and bring back rabbit or deer. He always enjoyed his meat too rare, it was something I never grew to like. I would keep our cave clean, most days I had to change our bed; a pile of warm grass, lamb’s wool and herbs scattered amongst our bedding to keep the bugs out. Sometimes I’d decorate the cave with flowers, finding places for them in chipped mugs and glass jars. The bear wasn’t too keen on those, if he’d see them he’d just shrug his shoulders and grunt. I think secretly he liked my touches.

Then it was night, darkness creeping into the forest a lot quicker than in the town. The trees ink black spikes standing against a backdrop of navy blue night sky. There were so many stars here, I asked the bear to teach me their names. He only taught me two, Ursa Minor and Ursa Major.
“What about the rest?” I said.

“They’re just stars, what does it matter? They don’t do anything.”

“But some people say…”

 “Some people say a lot of things, don’t think they’re right by any means.” he rolled onto his back, while I twisted my fingers in his hair.

“You’re stubborn.” I smiled.

 He turned his head to look at me, “Well noted, my girl.”

I traced the curve of his ear, “I love you, my bear.”

 He grunted and shut his eyes as though he would sleep, though his smile was honey sweet. I knew he would never say it. “Sleep girl.” he said.

“Goodnight, bear.”

He chuckled and buried his nose into my hair.

He got caught in the glen, an iron trap catching his leg and making him howl with pain. I heard him and dropped my basket; smears of red berries on my feet, where I stepped on the fallen fruit. I ran through the woods, my heart thumping painfully and my muscles burning. I crouched down when I saw them, the men with their guns and laughing smiles, the dogs barking and pouncing at my bear. One man walked forward, the low brim of his cap hiding his face,

“Where’s the girl?”

“I don’t know.”

I flinched when the man slammed his boot into my love’s face, the bones crunched underneath and my bear spat out blood.

“Where is she?” the man hissed.

“I don’t know.” growled my bear. He stared the man down, hands tightening into fists.

“Well,” the man smirked, “She won’t survive for long without you, will she?”

My bear didn’t look at him, “She’s a lot tougher than you think, dog.”

I did not feel very strong when his head whipped round at the force of the man’s punch, my poor bear’s lip was split, his nose broken and still he looked up at the man.

“We’ll go, the little fool can starve.”

I watched them leave. A crow cawed at the darkening sky and I felt the cold silence of the wood press down on my ears. I didn’t wait to hear my bear howl. I followed the twilight creeping along the paths in the forest. I bit my lip hard, till a dribble of blood ran down my chin. The first thing he taught me was to keep walking. I kept walking till I couldn’t hear or see or feel anything. The world was dead. So was my bear.

The Arts Aren't Important

Of course they aren't, they don't provide any value to society, they don't feed children or help the poor. The artists don't cure the sick or help the unemployed. They don't develop new technologies, medicines or fix the economy. What a fucking waste of time. The arts serve no purpose, if we had no arts we could continue as a society, we could still function. We wouldn't be wasting money on pointless art galleries or theatres, that really no one wants to go to.
And yet...if it is such a waste of time then why do we keep talking about the arts? Why does the Government and high ranking figures in Education insist, almost all the time, that the arts are a waste of time? They constantly tell us Universities and Businesses don't respect the arts, the arts don't pay well. If you tell family members you want a profession within the arts you get people raising their eyebrows, or look like they pity you, or they even voice their fears aloud.

"How will you make a living?"

"There aren't many jobs in that field."

"Perhaps something more secure would be more worthwhile."

And you have thought about these things and recognise the difficulties, if you've come this far, perhaps joining choirs, youth theatres, reading clubs or writing groups, practicing an instrument or sketching each night; having gone to University to study an art, and you're now facing the deep, dark pool of an unknown future within that field. You know how hard it can be, but you're willing to take the risks and push yourself all the way. You've watched friends and peers decide it's too hard, they can't go the distance, they aren't willing to push themselves through rejection, disappointment and frustration. The work is harder than expected, the criticism and refusals more difficult to cope with. And you are constantly reminded how worthless your degree is, how stupid your every day practice is, how useless the arts are.

But why? Society can survive on purely a basic level, if we stripped our societies of the arts, our bookshelves empty, our TVs blank, our magazines and newspapers empty white pages; our theatres, music halls, art galleries, libraries and cinemas all closed, we could exist. But what kind of existence? How much joy and hope could we find out in life? We would huddle in our homes and workplaces, grey and empty, there would be no pictures on the walls of course! It would be quiet, dull and then someone down the corridor would begin telling a funny story about what happened on Tuesday night, between so-and-so and so-and-so. People would gather, and laugh, and that person would be known as someone who could tell an excellent joke. They wouldn't know it, but they would be a storyteller.

And this is why the arts aren't important. Or why the Government wants the arts to be unimportant. When people gather to listen to a story, or even watch a dramatic retelling of a story. Or they sit alone and read a story, that does not always complies with the status quo and can suggest new ideas, ideas that are not Government approved, then there is danger and rebellion. When an Artist paints a picture, and people gasp with horror, or a film depicts an uncomfortable truth, that's the true working of Art. Sometimes, rather than having someone stand on a box and shout above the crowd, the arts can reveal the same thing and an audience will listen.

The Arts represent danger and truth, and if a Government can persuade us into thinking they are worthless and stupid, then people will start believing that. The truth is, we can survive without the Arts. However, we cannot live without them.