Guest Blog number 4 : Tina Price-Johnson

Wearing Myself


I first ordered a bespoke Diane Goldie artwork dress in 2014, in anticipation of the first handfasting celebration that I had been asked to participate in. I wanted something unique, a dress that reflected me on a very basic and spiritual level, which also made me feel comfortable and look fabulous. No pressure on Diane at all then!


So many images, so many words, so much that needed streamlining to fit on a dress; I knew the style I wanted, I knew the base colour I wanted, but what else? What images could I select that would make me feel I was wearing my soul on the outside?

Diane is a fabulous collaborator; she intuits what you want, and the clothing is a part of you, not a covering for your skin. My dress is an extra limb, a constantly firing neuron, an unspoken shout of who I am.

TIna in her bespoke dress .

Tina reading her poems at Diane's Style Tribe Tribute Show


So of course, one is not enough and I have already purchased another off-the-rack sale item which again seemed to have been made for me. Who knows, maybe it was? It just took the sale for the dress and myself to find each other.

Tina wearing her upcycled Daisy skull dress


To wear a Diane Goldie artwork is not just to wear an item of clothing. It is wearing oneself out, loud, proud and honest. It is a pride in myself that doesn’t put me above others, but above my own insecurities and my worst fears. It is a shield and a sword that cuts through the bullshit to who I am and to who those who see it are. I can trust the reactions of those who see what I am wearing.


If they love the clothing as much as I do, then I know I may have found a new friend.


I have ideas for my next commissioned piece. That’s the (not a) problem with Diane Goldie clothing; like tattoos, you will find yourself always wanting more!


Note from Diane:

I first met Tina at a spoken word event and her poetry really made an impact on me. Fiercely feminist, with a clear, empathic voice , her writing really moved me.


After my eldest daughter took her own life out in Cambodia on her birthday on New Years Eve, 2016 , we went through hell as the press hounded us , knocking on our door, shouting through our letterbox and camping outside with cameras ready to capture the grief.

A DAY AFTER I GOT THE NEWS.

ITN news even had the audacity to call me and ask me to speak on the lunchtime news . I gave the news editor a piece of my mind. He said he would tell the reporters on the story to back off.


Tina sent me a wonderful poem that felt like a fierce hug of solidarity and understanding about this . She also sent me a poem about my daughters passing that made me cry ( but in a good way) I reproduce them both with Tina's permission here.


Carrion Feeders of Fleet Street Former and Wapping


Hovering over the miasma of fear and sadness and confusion,

They wait .

They nudge and they tip and they wait for their moment,

To strike.

The call and the message and the email and the push, random,

They hunger .

They will leap on any name, any support, any friend to talk,

They feed.


Feed on the pain and desire and wantonness and sadness,

To sate.

No stone unturned , no depth unplumbed , no soul unscathed,

They seek.

By any and all means necessary they will chase down,

Their quarry.

In all the unhallowed quest for the word they can twist ,

They feed.


Look in the Mirror and see the cruelty they cannot see and live,

The knife.

Twists in the gut making worse those whose truth is not ,

The story.

Badly Broadcasting Crap and Inventing Tripe from Nothing ,

Not truth!

Unrecognised, That's not the Life that was lived in the print,

All lies.


Images that can never be unseen distort the pain and the hurt,

The truth ,

Is not something that any carrion feeders wanted, mental health is

Not News .

Not news to those who sell words by the inch and lies by the page,

Scandal!

Prurience created from the miasma of pain, words to succour as

Carrion.


Feeding on words twisted and changed to excrete falsehood in print,

We choose

Not to accept the holy written words of the carrion feeders

Who feed

On sensation created in their own minds ,

Not the reality of the lived.

Created ,

To sell the bodies of those who go before

live or dead , they are

Death eaters.


Carrion Feeders of Fleet Street former and Wapping ( though moved)

Symbols

Of all that is wrong and diseased and warped in our ailing society,

Tabloid.

Pain is their food and sex is their drink and we public are the unholy

Sacrifice.

On the altar of profit and war; love, peace and truth will always

Lose.


The Choice Is Mine

I am not strong , like an Amazon Or a Spartan woman, though Spartan was my life By choice. And the choice is mine.

I am not weak though , do not Mistake my open heart For an open vein bleeding Life, Love The choice is still mine.

I did not leave but I chose to go This world is not mine not Ours , not the place to be. I am not. And this choice is mine.

I leave love and pain and so much Behind me, I know but I also know That you understand me . You carry me . You know this choice is mine.

Mine , in my soul, in my heart In my body and my mind . My mind You know me. And this choice is mine.

It was too much and yet too little, It was the end of my winding road It was my finale, my artwork . Curtain call And the choice to go .

Is mine. Copyright Tina Price Johnson 27 Feb 2017


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