Emotive Art

I get teary eyed over music, mainly when I hear a beautiful vocal piece as I'm passionate about singing but haven't been blessed with an incredible natural talent for it. I have been known to sob like a little girl watching films or TV (for example Max's death in Hollyoaks and any emotive moment in Friends - even when watching an episode for the billionth time). I was overwhelmed when I saw The Lion King on stage and cried from the opening note to the closing curtain. To round it up, when it comes to emotional reactions to cultural experiences (highbrow or not), I am unashamedly affective. And so I felt compelled to write about a gargantuan artistic creation which inexplicably moved me.

It was presented to me in the form of a video during an Arts Marketing conference earlier this week. During what was otherwise an unimpressive seminar came this snippet of something magical, unbelievable, astounding, dumbfounding in some ways and I found myself completely drawn into it - even watching it second hand. I'm writing about The Sultan's Elephant, an event which took place last year and the clip of which doesn't begin to do it justice but was the best I could find. From 4th to 7th May 2007 the streets of London were transformed into the scenery of a storybook - the story of a little girl and a time machine in the form of a giant mechanical elephant. I'd never been aware of it until now, which is unsurprising since what goes on in London stays in London, because the UK starts at Uxbridge and ends in Seven Oaks. Hmmm, topical...

It seems as though a large percentage of the capital's population did know about the event however, as it was guesstimated over 1 million people spilled out onto the apparently gold paved streets of London to see what the craic was all about. And I would confidently say that not one person was disappointed; nobody who turned out that day was not touched by what they saw. The 'little girl' that the story revolves around is recreated as a 20ft giant puppet. And yet she is so real, as she walks along the street, looking around doe-eyed and with such innocence, she could be everyman's child. As several grown men struggle to dress her in socks and boat sized shoes, she instantly appears more vulnerable than her size would suggest. As children play with her - swinging on her arms - she becomes even more human, making eye contact with each child as though sharing in the experience mentally and emotionally. It's easy to forget that you're watching a puppet, and this is reflected by the reaction of the crowds. The clip I have linked to doesn't show the audience, but as the story draws to an end for the finale performance, there is a sea of people crying as the 'little' girl returns to whence she came.

It could be deemed an overreaction, but I can appreciate that the atmosphere at the event must have been extraordinary. The crowd do not just watch a performance - they collectively form an emotional bond with this child and being so close to her within the performance space, they become part of the tale. Over a million people enjoying, loving the mutual experience they are sharing is something so scarce that a powerfully warm ambiance would have incited a similarly strong, warm reaction.

The Sultan's Elephant costed millions of pounds to create and stage, and some would argue it is wasted money in a world with universal poverty issues, but I would disagree. The arts can cross language and culture barriers and remind us we are essentially the same. The arts remind us not to take life too seriously, they remind us how to feel and they make us think. The arts add magic in a world where scientific and technological advances disallow any room for wonderment, folk tale and imagination. Cultural experiences are so important for bringing people together when we would otherwise become immersed in our individual lives. The little girl giant is the child inside all of us - our innocence from a time where every experience was new. It is the arts that allow us to carry on experiencing new things from cradle to grave. And you can't put a price on that.