There’ll be more from the bakers of Camphill on this blog in the next week or so – they really are an inspiring, welcoming and talented bunch of people and work in what has to be one of the buzziest bakeries I’ve ever been to (listen to the audio slideshow – especially my sister’s numerous interjections – and you’ll see what I mean..).
For now, however, the slideshow photographs and the words of the bakers themselves speak volumes and do a better job than I could in a long piece of writing to reflect the bakery’s ethos and prove why schemes like this are so vital. Plus they make the most amazing things so, I’d like leave the last word to my sister, “ahhh the whiff of that bread!”
“Disabled people in residential care who want to live more independently are being prevented from doing so by funding wrangles between local authorities” – that’s taken from a piece I wrote three years ago, but since then little has changed.
Here’s the mess: an individual’s “ordinary residence” is usually in his or her original local authority area, so if a council places someone in residential care outside the area, it remains financially responsible.
But when someone decides to move from that residential care in the new area into supported accommodation within the same (ie “new”) area, their original authority argues that it is no longer responsible for funding. However, the new authority – where the person actually lives – argues against funding someone not originally from the area. The result – limbo.
Confusing? Not really, what it boils down to is that councils are passing the buck over people’s care, effectively dictating where people should live -and all the while, individuals themselves appear to have no say. And quibbling over the care bill will only get worse as local authority cuts continue to bite.
I’ve been involved in a piece of work published today by social care organisation Voluntary Organisations Disability Group. The VODG has previously demanded action to resolve such ordinary residence dilemmas and, this time, it argues that the Care Bill offers ample opportunity to finally tackle the challenge. The new briefing, Ordinary residence, extraordinary mess, is available from the VODG website, with this post outlining how the situation has become “business as usual” in many areas.
One way forward, which the bill could accommodate, is strengthening the duty on local authorities to cooperate with providers and with each other to prevent delays in funding when people want to move from one care setting to another. The Epilepsy Society, for example, which contributed to today’s publication, estimates that in the last three years it has covered gaps in fees totalling £350,000 and “staff time involved in chasing fees over the same period has amounted to approximate 340 days across all departments including senior and service managers, finance and administrative staff”.
Here’s just one story from today’s publication, from a social care provider in central England: “Joe moved out of residential care into supported living accommodation nearby, run by the same charity provider. Council A, where Joe is now ordinarily resident, is refusing to take over funding from Council B which had previously paid his out of county residential care fees. Some 14 months later, the social care provider (a medium sized charity) is owed nearly £50,000 from Council A for this one client. Members of the charity’s finance team chase Council A each week and include copies of previous correspondence and agreements. Council A continues to delay payments, giving the provider different reasons for not paying and passes the query around different council departments. The charity has continued to provide care and covered this gap in fees.”
While the powers-that-be seem unwilling to either acknowledge the scale of the problem or indeed have the confidence to untangle the mess, vulnerable people across the country remain in limbo, unable to move to the place of their choice because of bureaucratic wrangles.
As Anna McNaughton’s mother told me three years ago: “All Anna wants is to live in a suitable home – it’s a basic human need, not a luxury.” It’s a desperate situation that three years on, her words still have the same resonance.
Julie Heightley was so worried about her son Thomas suffering an epileptic fit at night that for two years she slept on a camp bed outside his room. The broken sleep and constant supervision of Thomas, who has autism and global developmental delay, was adversely affecting both Julie’s role as a carer and any prospect of independence for her son.
Now, thanks to a discrete network of wireless sensors dotted around the four-bedroom family home just outside Wolverhampton, Julie and Thomas, now five, are enjoying what Julie calls “a new lease of life”. Since the home was kitted out with the assistive technology two years ago, Thomas has been able to safely play and walk about the house independently without needing his mother’s 24-hours-a-day supervision. As well as having a slightly more hands-off approach to her five-year-old, Julie, a lone parent, has more time to spend her two older children who are in their teens.
Assistive – or personalised – technology includes a wide-range of supportive but unobtrusive services and equipment, from personal alarms for elderly people, to seizure monitors and more sophisticated fingerprint recognition systems that allow you to open the door without keys. It can also include computer software, hand held devices or video call systems that increase social interaction and family contact.
As fans of such services and systems point out, the traditional view of this technology is that it involves a medical and prescriptive approach (see the comments on the related VODG blogpost), but the key issue is to bring it to the consumer market, widen its use among the general public and raise awareness about its potential.
As the publication stresses, the social care sector has embraced a huge amount of innovation in assistive technology, using new methods to complement the physical work of support staff. it is transforming lives for the better. But the use of such services, systems and equipment does not enjoy the higher profile of our counterparts in the health sector, despite the fact it is entirely in line with the “person-centred” approach that care providers are working towards and encourages choice, control and independence – social care watchwords.
Today’s report, with its real life stories of how technology is transforming the lives of vulnerable people, aims to change that: “Put simply, technology is part of our modern landscape. We use it for work, leisure, at home and on the move. It makes our lives easier. People with life-long disabilities or age related conditions should share that experience, benefitting from the advantages that tailor-made technological support can bring.”
Stanley Holes is, says his little brother Albie in the brief video diary above, simply “the best brother I could ever have.” Albie’s love for his 16-year-old brother is reflected in this short film which I just watched and wanted to share. Produced for Autism Wessex, the charity that supports Stanley, it stands out for me because it’s presented from a sibling’s perspective: “I love him very much,” says 11-year-old Albie of his teenage brother, “and he is very important to me and my family.”
Diagnosed with autism at three, with no speech and, as Albie says, “little understanding of the world that surrounds him”, Stanley hadn’t been to an autism-specifc setting until last year when he started Autism Wessex’s Portfield School in Dorset. Underlining the vital need for autism-specific support, only now is Stanley receiving proper speech and language therapy – and he’s thriving on the specialist care and education. In one of the previous schools he was at, his family was told that as Stanley was autistic, there was no point in him getting speech therapy since his condition made communication impossible.
Stanley was regarded as a child whose behaviour challenges, his complex needs mean he is prone to anger and violent outbursts (“episodes”, as Albie explains in the film). Yet his story shows that even in complex cases, positive outcomes are possible.
Stanley has started to shows more awareness of his surroundings, and is becoming more independent, using signing with more confidence. Younger brother Albie, meanwhile, is more assured about talking to people about his older brother and how autism affects him and his family’s life.
Stanley’s family realised after a few short months that he seemed much happier at his new school compared to previous special needs environments; as Albie says in the film, “It’s important for me to know that while I’m having fun, Stanley is having a great time too.”
Stanley is a weekly boarder at Portfield, coming home for the weekend, where Albie his parents, plus fellow siblings Mabel, 15, and Elsie, 7, are keen to spend time with him. Before starting at the school, as their father Paul says, Stanley’s behaviour was having an adverse impact on his siblings. Now, says Paul, the change in the family dynamic and in Stanley is “the difference between living and existing”.
One glance at James Lake’s giant 3D portrait of baritone David Rushbrook, and you may never look at a cardboard box the same way again.
Lake’s showstopping sculpture, created through the painstaking layering of cardboard, is intended to move, sing and perform alongside the other performers on stage (the head has already featured alongside the opera singer in Glyndebourne).
As the artist explains on his website, he chose the “inexpensive, commonplace and recyclable” medium because he “wanted to sculpt beyond the traditional materials and without the need of an arts studio”. Lake’s right leg was amputated after bone cancer at the age of 17 and his work focuses on humanity, strength, and vulnerability. His aim is to create work that breaks down the barriers in the art world.
The giant piece of Rushbrook, who has a learning disability, is just one big reason to visit Shape Arts‘ pop up multimedia gallery in London, Shape in the City, which is now open until May. The disability-led arts charity works to improve access to culture for disabled people and Lake is one of 30 disabled or deaf artists featured over five floors and 60,000 feet of exhibition space.
Lake’s 3D work head is shown alongside prints, paintings, film and video, poetry, performance art and installations. The showcase features established as well as up and coming artists plus pieces from the London 2012 Cultural Olympiad programme: ‘Unlimited’.
Here’s a bit more information about three other pieces on display:
Lake’s life-size Sitting without Purpose depicts his father during redundancy, aiming to reflect a man contemplating the challenges of life.
Visitors to the exhibition can watch Noemi Lakmaier live or via webcam painting 500 pairs of shoes in the kind of paint used to mark accessible parking bays in homage to her 2008 piece Experiment in Happiness. Lakmaier’s work explores ideas of the “other”, such as how the individual relates to surroundings and identity. By the time the pop up gallery closes, it will be filled with hundreds of painted shoes.
Chrisopher Sacre‘s artistic epiphany, as he himself has said,”may have arrived in an unexpected form” – but his work has been transformed since discovering “a happy marriage between condoms and plaster”.
* Shape in the City, in partnership with Photovoice and Action Space, 40 Gracechurch Street, London, EC3V 0BT, 10:00am to 2:00pm. For more information email firstname.lastname@example.org
The Fabulous Raana Salman
What does “puck off” mean, you asked,
When a playground jibe you misheard,
It’s an insult, we said, with a bittersweet laugh,
And “puck” is quite a rude word.
You’re older now, and more in the know,
And you’re still just brilliantly funny,
We love how you call my other half “bro”,
And our mother is always called “mummies!”
You constantly amaze us with all that you do,
You garden, you cook and you bake,
You’re a music fan who likes her tunes loud,
Full volume – bloody early – at dawn break.
You love Chinese food and movie nights in,
And sometimes the pub if it’s near,
Remember your fury when we ordered you juice,
And you indignantly cried: “I want beer!”
“You’re fried!” you shout, knowingly wrong,
After watching The Apprentice on telly,
You say it when angry or to make us smile,
And it shows you’ve fire in your belly.
You’re creative and busy and do stuff we can’t,
You’ve woven and painted and grown,
I love having you stay so you’re able to see
How your art brightens up my home.
You’re thoughtful with gifts, matching present to person,
(You know I like peppermint tea)
We joke how “mummies” foots the bill sometimes,
And you say of your gifts: “They’re for free!”
You love baggy sweatshirts, they comfort and cloak,
You categorically refuse a posh frock,
You know your own mind, you’re fabulous and kind,
And basically Raans, you rock.
* The film Mission to Lars will be released on 8 April, with proceeds going to Mencap to help support people with a learning disability and their families. The film follows Tom Spicer who has Fragile X syndrome, a form of autism. He has a dream to meet his hero – Lars Ulrich – and his sister Kate tries to make that happen.
Down’s syndrome is a genetic condition caused by the presence of an extra chromosome and affects one in every 1,000 babies; there are around 60,000 people with the condition in the UK.
The small group of photographers whose work forms the exhibition all have experience of having had children with Down’s syndrome; the collective came together 10 years ago to create a series of works for Down’s Syndrome Awareness Week (this year’s awareness week ended yesterday).
Among the photographers involved in the ongoing project is Kayte Brimacombe, who documents social issues and whose previous images for the awareness week can be viewed here.
The art and awareness project has toured the UK and Ireland since then, visiting seven different countries. This week’s show reflects the body of work created so far and coincides with a special book marking the work created so far.
A wider range of images can be seen on the project website and admission to the show is free. It’s open from 11am – 6pm until Sunday 31 at the gallery@oxo and Bargehouse.
If only more people had the chance to develop in confidence like Laura Minett.
Laura, who I interviewed for a Guardian social care piece today, works as an expert by experience. Her part-time role through the charity which supports her, Choice Support, means monitoring and inspecting social care services on behalf of social care watchdog the Care Quality Commission. The self-assurance she has developed thanks to the job means that when I misspelt her surname during our interview, she politely – but firmly – asked for my pen so that she could write it out for me herself.
Laura, who has a learning disability, told me she is driven by helping improve support for people who may be less independent than her. As she says in today’s piece in the Guardian: “I like getting out and about meeting people and thinking ‘maybe that’s good maybe that’s bad’. I like having a job and talking to the service users – it’s about their quality of life.”
The views of people who use social and health care services are so often not taken into account, something which a major inquiry into health treatment of people with learning disabilities found this week. Involving people who use services in improving the health and social care sector is vital, but so often consultation is nothing more than lip service.
Not so with the experts programme it seems. Another expert I met, Laura Broughton, stressed that paid work and the recognition that her opinion is valuable has made a huge difference to her life. Both the experts explained they have spotted things that could be improved in residential care (simple things, even, like offering people a better choice of food and drink) and told me that individuals in care tell them their concerns or wishes much more freely than they would a professional or full-time inspector without their personal experience.
She has been an expert for just two years, but already speaks in public and to social care professionals about her role. She walked into our meeting relaxed and confident. “I was quite different before doing this,” Laura told me. “I’d never had job before, certainly not in offices, I was more shy. Now I’ve done the experts work, Choice Support is getting me involved in slightly different things as well. I’m training [Choice Support staff and CQC inspectors] and have done presentations and workshops. It’s exciting…I’m travelling quite a lot and getting to know the country.”
Here is some more from the two experts in their own words, which both women previously shared on the CQC and Choice Support websites.
Laura Minett: “If someone said, “What is an expert by experience?” I would answer that I am a person who has a disability and who has first hand experience of using services provided by both health providers and social care providers. I use my experience to talk to others to find out what they think about the care they are getting and if it is good enough for each individual using the service.
I work with different inspectors and have already visited lots of different services like hospitals, a residential college, care homes, assessment and treatment units and secure units. I have recently been part of inspection teams involved in the National Review of Learning Disability services.
My main job is to find out about people’s experiences of the care they receive. The inspector tells me which of the 16 outcomes I need to prepare questions on to ask on the inspection. We arrange a meeting time for the day and go to the service unannounced. This means the provider doesn’t know we are coming. I use my experience to find out what they think about the care they are getting and if it is good enough for each individual using the service.”
Laura Broughton: “Being part of this review was a good experience for me. It gave me the experience of what it is really like for other people who have a learning disability. What happened at Winterbourne View was terrible and should have never happened.
Working as part of a team with inspectors was exciting. The work was exciting but difficult too. Sometimes some of the places I visited were not pleasing , they were challenging.
Some of the people I met should have more help in getting a better life. They were often bored and distressed and staff talked to them not as adults but as though they were children. Some of the people weren’t treated as individuals and certainly not in a person centred way. I felt some people didn’t get the opportunities they should have because they couldn’t speak or because others felt their behaviour was challenging.
It was good for me because I’m now a lot more confident, I’ve got a paid job as an Expert by Experience. Having a paid job is new for me as it is with a lot of people who have a learning difficulty. I have a voice and I was able to help other people living in these services to have a voice.
I hope things will change. All people who have a learning disability have the right to good safe services, choices and a good life.”
Huge lashes sweeping over her eyelids, face framed by diamante and skin shining gold, this is a photographic portrayal of how Samona Naomi Williams feels some days: valuable, not a burden to society.
Yet Samona, a wheelchair user who Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (EDS) type 3 which, amongst other things, affects her mobility, also has days where she feels trapped by her condition, vulnerable and delicate. Outwardly, on some days, she may show little sign of her disability. This is reflected in a portrait where she is bound to her chair with tape emblazoned with the word ‘fragile’.
Then there are times, she recalls, referring to a shot of her on a mattress strewn with medication, that her bed is a “marshmallow prison”: “There is no rest for me here. Yet I’m tied to it. I’m bound to it. There’s nothing sexy about being bed bound, though I wish to see it differently.”
Samona has turned her experience of disability into an art project, Bound, documenting her story with photographer friend Anthony David King. The pair recently exhibited the works at the Brick Gallery in east London and the pieces are available to view online at Saatchi with an exhibition tour of London planned for later this year.
Until her diagnosis in 2009, Samona was a TV, music video and film producer, producing and directing a short film screened at Cannes. With her condition, she felt she had “nothing to give”: “I was just this ‘disabled person’. I cannot write, I cannot do my films, I cannot work – that’s when Anthony and I sat down and had a discussion about what can I do to use to use my skills and illness. We came up with photographic project which we could make work around my disability.”
Anthony, who met Samona as a student, adds: “When she became ill, the impact on me as a friend, seeing her go through this…I could see she felt she didn’t have much to offer. We decided to do something together, an opportunity to do something not just for her but to tell her story that may be encouraging to others, looking at ways we could express her experiences.”
Samona’s condition means that everyday tasks – taking a shower or making a cup of tea – can be difficult. She uses a wheelchair when she goes out due to weakness, dizziness, a heart condition and pain when she walks. She often suffers fortnight long “crashes” where she remains in bed, exhausted and in pain. She describes these episodes as “being crushed by bricks”.
Yet the images are bold and provocative – Bed and Gold, for example, portray an attractive woman. Samona adds: “I may be sitting there [in bed or in the wheelchair], but in my head, I’m imagining something else, a feeling of fantasty. I was keen to get away from any stereotypical views that are out there; this is something that we don’t talk about – I’m still a woman…I know lot of people living with illness and we can infiltrate popular culture and can present beautiful images.
“Disability in the media is about benefit culture, it’s a negative thing, and also a lot of the time I feel people [without disabilities] cannot relate to disabled people, they have one of two reactions – they look away or they overcompensate. But we are just normal people who have an illness – it does not change you as person. I can’t get up every morning and do my hair but it doesn’t take away the desire to be who I am and who I was before. We all suffer from some kind of weakness and vulnerability; some wear it on the outside and some on the inside.”
The project, says Samona, also stemmed from a desire to draw attention to the lack of support for disabled people and how the current welfare reforms are a threat to vulnerable people.
Samona, who has home care, adds: “It is important, especially after the Paralympics, to keep attention on disability – not say ‘well, the Paralympics was a positive thing, and now let’s move on’…we are not miserable people who don’t want to work and who are in chairs and who are a burden on society.” She worries about the government cuts. “Of course they pick on the most vulnerable members of society, most disabled people are suffering.. it’s difficult to get out of bed some days, let alone write a letter to make a complaint. They kick you while you’re down.”
The artists stress that their exhibition portrays the the challenging side of Samona’s experience, but has a positive message. “The full set of images we shot try to keep a balance of reality – so the truth is that there are great moments and we tried to show that in images like Gold, Samona still has something to offer, still a valuable person,” says Anthony.
Samona explains the story behind the shots above: Gold:
“When I realised that I wasn’t going to recover easily, quickly or perhaps not at all from this illness, I didn’t know what to do. I had so many dreams and goals and suddenly it felt as if I would no longer be an asset to this world. I was going to be a burden. A burden to my family, a burden to society, incapable of contributing anything to anyone. I sat and contemplated this new existence, I felt completely worthless and couldn’t really see the point of carrying on, I may as well end it, I thought. However the caterpillar struggles through its cocoon before it can become a butterfly and a rock undergoes immense pressure before it becomes a diamond. I slowly began to see this illness as less of a torment and more of a metamorphosis, a struggle into something greater than I was before. I saw my worth in a different way. I could still contribute to my family and I still have so much to give to society. How? By allowing myself to be me regardless of this illness and realising that rather than being worthless, I am worth more than ever before. I am valuable. I can still shine and I will still go on.”
“I sometimes wish I were wearing this fragile warning tape when I go out in the wheelchair so that people would heed the signage and treat me delicately. Being in a wheelchair means you are exposed and on show and people often have reactions, judgments and lack consideration. They may see you as an inconvenience or worst still behave like they don’t see you in a clumsy and nervous fashion. In my case, people behave confused ‘what exactly is wrong with her’. I see their questioning and it feels almost accusing sometimes, ‘You’re not really disabled.’ ‘You don’t look ill’. Imagine how that makes me feel. The physical pain is enough but this is coupled with emotional pain whenever I go out. I feel the need to explain, ‘Hey, I might look ok but I’m suffering every day’. I am broken physically and mentally and I wish people would understand. It would be easier if I could just wear the tape.”
“I have found a new relationship with my bed. It’s like a marshmallow prison, necessary, uncomfortable, restricting and binding. It’s where I spend most of my time, in complete agony and pain. I feel restless, unable to sleep and too weak to stay awake. It’s a mind- numbing, agonizing, maddening experience being unable to move from the bed. Despite its billows of softness, feathered stage and relaxing countenance, it is not the pleasure pen that I wish it could be. There is no rest for me here. Yet I’m tied to it. I’m bound to it. There’s nothing sexy about being bed bound, though I wish to see it differently.”
“Decision-makers are cheaters, they suck..they don’t give a sh*t about us disabled”
“I don’t want to live in a group home, I don’t want to live in an institution”
“They make promises in Parliament and break them every day”
Not the words from a campaign against welfare cuts or disability rights, but lyrics from a Finnish punk band whose learning disabled members star in a new film and are about to embark on a UK tour.
The Punk Syndrome, already being shown in selected cinemas and out on DVD next month, is a documentary about the band Pertti Kurikka’s Name Day (see the trailer with subtitles at the end of this post).
The documentary by filmmakers Jukka Kärkkäinen and J-P Passi follows the members – Pertti Kurikka on guitar, Kari Aalto, vocals, Sami Helle on bass and drummer Toni Välitalo – as they record, fight, find love and gradual fame. Guitarist Pertti, who lends his name to the group, composes the music and writes the lyrics with vocalist Kari. The band members’ learning disabilities include Down’s syndrome and autism.
The film bills itself as painting a “frank, edgy and funny portrait of the individual band members” and you can believe the hype; this is one film that does what it says on the tin.
It is warm, refreshingly raw, poignant and laugh-out-loud funny. Watch out for some awkward issues around personal hygiene, a comically honest complaint from one musician to another that the music he’s writing is, well, a little too difficult to play, and an al fresco gig in a shopping area where the audience, pensioners included, is encouraged to “wave your hands in the air like you don’t give a f..”.
This isn’t a portrait of vulnerable people undergoing music therapy (although, even the band originated through music therapy workshops, does it matter if the end result brings their story and their experiences as adults with learning disabilities to light?) but charts the bust ups and the brotherly respect between the musicians (although there’s more of the former than the latter).
My favourite song? The one about one band member’s trip to the pedicurist, a regular event that inspires an angry song. On one level a darkly comic diatribe against yet another appointment that has to be kept, on another, a spitting rage against a lack of choice and control; being forced to do things you don’t really want to do at times when you don’t really want to do them.
The band was formed in 2009 in a workshop arranged by Lyhty, a non-profit organization that provides housing and education services. The group came together on punk fan Pertti’s name day [the tradition of celebrating the day associated with your given name] the band’s name was born. Pertti won the silver medal in the Nordic countries’ street organ championships in 2008.
As for Pertti’s fellow musicians, Kari is into motorcycles and has a girlfriend who he one days hopes to move in with. He hates group residential living, a sentiment he puts into his lyrics: “I live in a group home in Töölö, but I don’t like it because the area is too quiet. People in Kallio are nicer and there are record stores and bars.” As he says in the film: “Everyone has the right to make a decision about where and how they would like to live.”
Bass player Sami, a volunteer campaigner with the political party he supports, lives in the same group home as Kari. Toni lives with his parents who want him to move into group living, but he wants to stay at home.
Pertti, who describes touring as “terribly lovely” says he has been surprised “to see how many people dig us and say ‘Hey, that band plays damn well.’ We played a gig and they really liked our band.”
If anything, I’d have liked to have known more about their families, a bit more about the process that brought them together, but that would have been a different film. Cinematographer J-P Passi, has said of the documentary: “I hope that our film will show people that these people shouldn’t be though of as defective or inadequate, but rather as individual and complete human beings. I’d like the audience to see them as people who lack certain knowledge and skills but also lack the ability to act destructively against other people.”
To borrow Pertti’s words when he describes his band, this is one “kick-ass” documentary.
* The film is playing in selected venues, see the list of screenings here.
* If Pertti Kurikka’s Name Day and the film are of interest, then check out Stay Up Late, founded by the band Heavy Load. The Brighton charity brings disability arts to the mainstream and advocates for the rights of people to lead the lives they want to. Stay Up Late’s gig buddies scheme, for example, gets people with and without learning disabilities going to gigs together through a love of the same music. You can also check out this link to a documentary about Heavy Load.