December 15 2001
For some reason or other known unto themselves the Turner prize has been rescheduled for December. I think it has something to do with Madonna. The gossip is that she has agreed to lend her Frida Kahlo paintings to the Tate Modern for the BIG show on Surrealism. For a price! In exchange for her presenting the prize at the Turner show. Sort of an offer the Tate can't refuse!!
The Surrealist show is good, really quite good, worth at least two visits. The trouble is the Tate Modern has a really good Friend’s Room. I try not to go there first, so as not to get side tracked – getting my cappuccino and the free newspaper and sinking into the soft sofas and just watching the River Thames go buy or the dome of St Paul's sparkle in the sunlight. It is possible to go there and somehow forget about the art. It is a divine place for a secret tryst. If one has a life like that! One can act so drop dead casual when drinking wine and being sucked into the soft leather.
However back to the Turner prize… as I was saying Our Madge, that’s what they are calling her these days here since she calls London her home gets to open the awards envelope and present the prize to the winner for lending her pictures. All this happens after her big tour so maybe that’s why it was changed.
Dearest and I have settled us in front of the TV for the event and to
tape it for Bet. Not enough her being there! She has to see what got out
into the art loving public.
Madge looks hip in her understated fashion and gives a good little speech
about there being no real winners because real art is not about that.
Once again a piece of my wardrobe has made it to the Turner prize but I
did not. I had just brought in glasses of wine for us and curled up on the
sofa when nearest and dearest said.
‘Oh look. It's one of your nice 1920s jackets made it to the event
again. Only I don't recognise who is wearing it. Has G had a face lift?’
I peer at the screen. That is not anybody I know and there can't be many
jackets like that about. Coincidence Maybe? Just then G comes into the
screen and I saw her talk to the woman wearing MY Jacket!
‘That's her boss!’ I hiss ‘She has lent her line manager my
1920's jacket.’
I was still fuming about it when Madge finished her speech and then
spoiled it by adding ‘Right on you Mother Fuckers!’
That poor girl really blew it. Any social nuances that she may have
picked up about how to act in London social gatherings obviously haven't
stuck. There was a deathly silence from the audience. A feeble clap spread
through it as the winner Martin Creed came to collect his prize. We were
given a quick sight of Nick Serota's face frozen in a half smile with a
glazed look of terror in his eyes. The censor hadn't the time to bleep it
out, as it was a live broadcast. The bleep sort of followed her words.
Even the hip arts commentator that followed. He, who used to have a space
above me, came on the air afterwards and just said. ‘Sad. Real sad.’
He paused, then sighed. ‘Isn't it great Martin got the prize?’
Then sighed again.
Near and dear turned and said ‘Boy! she blew it.’
I was mad at G for borrowing my jacket then lending it to her boss. Lucky
for me I taped the event so G can’t lie her way out of it with her
usual denials.
The term this year at College where I am desperately trying to pursue a
MPhil part time has been very rough moneywise. I have had very little
lecturing work at any of the education establishments where I have worked.
Sales are dreadful. My dealer who broke her leg three years ago, then
picked up a microbe-resistant bug in hospital and to put it nicely she has
gone a bit batty under the pressure. I need to find a new dealer and
gallery real quick like. Things haven’t been helped by the fact my
head of department walked out last year, which meant the four remaining
students, have been sort of lost. We don’t even know if the
department will keep going. I then got really distraught because I spent
all my money for the fees on going home and seeing my family and then
seeing my mum. I thought it was a good move because she has had pneumonia
and had been in and out of hospital. I really thought it might be the last
time I saw her.
Then I was refused a career development loan because I was too old. When I
went to see the new supervisor and head of research about something
completely different and I suddenly bursts into tears. I couldn’t
stop once I got started. I kept apologising then going ’boo hoo hoo’.
She sat there with her mouth open. The next week I got a letter saying all
my fees had been paid and I was left with a small supplement. The thing
was I didn’t even mention money!
I have started up a small private class in my rented studio for professional people on Saturday mornings. The building work on my studio is going really slowly and looks like it won’t be finished until March next year. Thus I have sublet my friend K’s studio for three months to get any work at all done. BUT it is at the top of five floors, which is ten flights of stairs even before I get to work. It’s the sort of exercise people will pay big money to fancy gyms for the pleasure of doing. At least that’s what I tell myself every time I go to work there. Who says artists are wimps? I have to give the private students strong coffee every time they come to revive them after the climb.
December 28
We managed to come down to the coast to spend a few days in the empty
home of Dearest’s wealthy employers again over the Xmas Break. They
get so bored with their second home they need a holiday elsewhere. The
elderly mum who lives in her wing has been great on the cooking front and
the local pub has great fish, all caught locally. At night the stars are
so many and so bright in the country they come as a shock.
Managed to start my running again in an attempt to get the body back in
shape from spending too much time in front of the computer and happily
eating my way through Christmas. The trouble is all the weight gain goes
to a limited area around my middle.
The week before Christmas we ate out every night. Suddenly all the people
who I have fed or supported over the past year got all guilty and invited
us over for a meal. There was one little hiccup in the eating binge. Just
before Christmas when dearest walked in one night with a brace of
pheasants in his grip. I let them hang in the garden shed for a week as
directed before plucking them. The feathers are spectacular but there are
rather a lot of them - an awful lot of feathers for such a tiny body in
the end. But they did taste all right. One needed a rather fruitier wine
than usual to go with them…but they were free!!
I invited the next door neighbour who was on her own and two ex-pupils of
mine who are doing rather well in Germany around for the pheasant dinner.
Not the greatest success as the woman ex-student had a very bad cold and
the only thing she was interested in was the advent calendar. I sigh of
relief went up when they left early and the three of us could do some
serious drinking. Dearest had found a strange silver spoon in his
favourite junk shop the day before. The discussion, after the two student
guests left, centred on this object and a good bottle of port. The next
door neighbour who is terrible well spoken and a high ranking civil
servant to boot was convinced it was for snorting coke in the 1920s. Which
did cause dearest eyebrow to twitch a little. However, in the end, we
discovered it was for cocktails. How sensible indeed.!!
I was after all invited to the Tate Britain’s artists’ Xmas
party. Bet was as good as her word. Some pretty weird people showed up.
Dearest expressed an unusual desire to go as it was being held in the new
extension. I had an appointment with the head of research before had and
turned up in my hip London party gear. It seems they are pleased with my
work at the college. In fact I bumped into one of my supervisors at the
party an hour later. Right state she was in.
‘I am ttttthelebrating my viva. Hic! I got my PhD last week. Hic!’
I knew it was happening because she mentioned it during the tutorial the
day before. She had been rather nervous about it.
‘Good for you’ I said but I don’t think she heard me before
she staggered off into the crowd apologising to a piece of sculpture she
bumped into along the way.
Dearest enjoyed himself. We wandered into the Turner prize show to view
the entrants. We viewed it in silence then walked back into the party and
began a chat with Bet.
Dearest suddenly said: ’Videos are the still life of the 20th
century.’
We looked at him stunned. Then Bet’s face lit up and she launched
into this heavy conversation with him about this issue. I walked off and
left them to it. I had just spied the hor d’oeuvres waitress. So off
I went in hot pursuit. They were brilliant. The wine was awful. I have
gone off wine served at private views because it is always so cheap and
nasty.
There was one artist there who dresses up like a Victorian Shirley
Temple wandering about. I had met him before when he was in jeans at a
previous private view so he came up to me to say hello. I must say it is
rather disconcerting talking to a transvestite Shirley Temple. He calls
himself a tranny and couldn’t see why I thought he must have a good
sense of humour. He was deadly serious about it all.
‘Compulsion’ - as he called his need to dress up as a Victorian
eight-year-old.
I asked him ‘Do you get a sexual thrill out of it?’
‘Of course!’ And he indignantly walked off. I stood there with
my mouth open. Dearest came up beside me.
‘Who was that awful child? She needs a shave. You know, I think I
have seen some people here who look just like the parents of some of the
artists I knew in the Wapping studios.’
I looked at him. Where has he been for three decades?
‘They are not their parents, Sweetie. It is them. You are still
looking for people who you saw twenty - thirty years ago. Have you looked
in the mirror lately?’
‘Have you?’
‘Did you enjoy your conversation with Bet?’
‘Oh yeah and with several other people. I should come to more of
these things. Did you see G yet?’
‘No. Did you?’
‘Yes and I think she is trying to avoid you. She keeps looking for
you and then when she sees you she goes in the opposite direction. I have
been watching her. She saw me watching her and mouthed hello before
running off.’
‘Have you seen Bet’s boyfriend?’ I queried, as he seemed to
know so much.
‘You mean the one who is the young geriatric? No. He is not here and
you should know he did not come to the Turner prize dinner either. She was
most upset about it but tried very hard to act nonchalant and act as if it
really was planned that way all alone. It didn’t work. He did help
her pick out the dress she wore.’
‘How did you find all this out?’
‘She was crying on my shoulder!’
I looked at him in amazement. I must remember to bring him to more events
like this He’s proving to be very valuable.
I tried to find my friend J that got married to a Russian this summer.
They have this arrangement where they only get together about five or six
times a year depending if their work and schedules can coincide. I think
they will be married for a very long time or it will fall apart very soon.
Mid-January
I have a confession to make. Once again I was lurking around the shelves of the supermarket desperately trying to decide what to feed us for the next two weeks when a neighbour pounced me upon. The same one who last time roped me into mending the Church’s crucifix and it came out piebald. This time the local parish is doing a pantomime and she wanted me to help with the sets and costumes. I should have pleaded insanity but no…. I said I would do a day…. One week later I had not only been cast as the old wise woman but all the set had been designed and painted by me. It looked great. Everyone loved the sets. The show was amateurish but who cared. People were wetting themselves from laughing so much and close to £700 was raised for Charity. The neighbourhood was all a-chatter about the production. We are even getting a review in the local residents’ association newsletter. How’s that for fame and fortune? Dearest came along with K and they both won raffle prizes. K said his faced ached from laughing so much for days afterwards, which wasn’t meant as a compliment. Dearest won a hamper of what he said were dubious canned goods. What did he expect for a 20p ticket?
Bet and I are planning to go to some PV’s this week. Her holiday back home with new boyfriend did not go too well. All will be revealed.
February, First Week
I have been so ill with flu. Cancelled all private views. The country curator came down for weekend in the midst of it and was very pissed off that I was too sick to go to a really good Robbie burns night party complete with Kalley band. During the week Bet phoned up and said the PV at the Barbican was at 7:30 not 6 and she was too tired to go. I was also so whacked that we cancelled it. Sad isn’t it? Both of us had too much work to do the next day. I was still done in with the flu as well. However we are meeting up this weekend at Maison Berteaux.
In the midst of my illness and hiding in bed and the country curator visiting, dearest decides to take down a wall between the kitchen and conservatory. AS one does. I crawled further under my covers. Building rubble everywhere! Dust deep enough to write novels in. Hysterical cats! But he was grinning and very happy about it all. I have only been asking him to do it for fourteen years. Now, he decides is a good time. Perhaps it was threatening to run away while under the influence of a high fever that did it.
The back to college adventure even though it is part time is getting to me. Nothing in my life is part time. It’s like saying you’ll be married part time. Writing abstracts, essays and whatnot takes up a lot of my time. My brain aches! Then there’s the reading. Well that has been a revelation in itself. Why are all the French philosophers so angst ridden? And it borders on theology! Those last revelation came about with the discussions I have been having with my neighbour, the deaconess. I have been known to raid her bookshelves in search of a few difficult authors. I am rather impressed with her collection of current and up-to-date writers in contemporary thought.
Meanwhile I am slowly and I do mean slowly winding myself up to go to private views. My mate K has been a great instigator. For himself he is determined to break through with his art this year. At 46 that is no mean feat. I do not know what he means by that but I have fair idea that it’s about more recognition and much more MONEY than what he has at present. Now I can identify with him on both of those matters. But how it is going to happen is another thing altogether.
S managed to wrangle a few days teaching for me at her university. She is under heavy weather at her work, battling with the male members of staff. The younger males taking their cues from the older ones in sniping at her whenever the chance presents itself. I witnessed an example of it in action when I found that the room booked by S for me to give tutorials had been mysteriously double-booked for other students by the younger male farts. Now, as S was away in America at a conference, she couldn’t do battle with the twerps responsible for this. Needless to say, the technician who witnessed the booking and saw it was free did a great impression of rage. With me throwing insults in for good measure. Just wait till she gets back. I have seen her throw a desk at a man from thirty feet and still hit him.
Still not back in my studio!! The renovations are taking six months and
not the six weeks promised. The studio let is killing me being five floors
up. The drawings I have been working on have a lot of graphite in them and
can be very slippery.. It is also used as a lubricant in industry. I have
gone sailing on it and almost broke my neck so when of the private
students took flight I had to grab her by the scruff of the neck before
she went sailing out the window and out into the blue and down into
traffic lights below. That’s all I need. Must remember to go to P’s
private view in an obscure gallery in Shoreditch. However one of the
nicest things to happen in ages was a night at the ballet with Bet and a
friend of hers from college. Em could not make it and neither could G.
both being bed bound with colds. But Bet just sneered at the possibility
of G in bed with a cold.
‘A cold man, darling, is what she means.’
The ballet was at the Royal Opera House. So I guess we had a night at
the opera. It was a freebie from Bet’s new job. I still can’t
work out whom she is working for these days but it does have its benefits.
Apparently in some capacity she was at the reception afterwards for Sam
Taylor-Wood’s new exhibition opening at White Cube2 and just happened
to be sitting next to the PR person for the Royal Opera House and he just
happened to give her four free tickets for some of the best seats in the
house - for the hell of it.
Sam Taylor-Wood and Jay Joplin. Now there’s a cosy situation. Your
husband just happens to be the hippest art dealer in London and you manage
to get great commissions and show at his wonderful gallery and get on the
list for the top best-dressed women in England. Bitter MOI? No, just
pissed off. It goes to show who you know counts a lot. But knowing Bet and
G hasn’t helped me. …. Perhaps sex is a vital ingredient that is
missing.
Now, the ballet was sumptuous. I dressed up in a little designer number
I had at the back of the wardrobe and had bought last year in a moment of
weakness and inspiration. An Issey Miyaki dress I had silently paid for on
my cards. It is always well worth having a few really good pieces at times
and just dress in jeans the rest of the time. Well that’s my theory.
I did the lot - make up, hair and heels. Bet walked by me in the foyer.
‘It’s amazing what a little makeup can do, isn’t it.’
She remarked after I hailed her down.
‘You should try it some time.’ I bounced back. I wasn’t
going to let her get away with that one.
The ballet was Ondenian, a tale of spurned love and regret –
beautifully danced by men in body forming tights. It’s amazing what
fabric technology has done for the dance world. At the first break we were
all out of breath even the college friend who is gay. There was a
wide-eyed sparkle and restlessness about us after all that close exposure
to so many well formed male bodies. They were such good seats.
‘That calls for champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches.’ My
college friend declared.
‘MY treat.’ She added.
One could get used to this life style, so gracious. I had a charming man
flirt with me at the little circular stand where we alighted to eat the
classy snacket. After he left I said, ‘What I need is a wealthy
lover.’
‘Don’t we all!’ was the joint reply.
Then we burst out laughing and choked on our sandwiches, which meant we
had to have another round of champagne. Such is life.
At the second interval I bought the G and T’s. We went to the older part of the building to lounge graciously and pose as wealthy art patrons. What an evening! If only some of the art shows I go to could raise the same emotions as seeing men dance in tights.
I went to see the Sam Taylor Wood show at White Cube2 the next day. She is being hailed as THE only contemporary artist who is dealing with religious imagery! I had a LONG look around. Yes I know she is sitting on the steps holding Robert Downling JR in her arms like Michelangelo’s Pieta BUT… and the sheep bound with a cord around its legs is like one of the Flemish alter paintings BUT. It’s all just a bit of a caricature of real emotions. Sorry, but where is the imagery that speaks about today’s religious crisis and alienation. That is what made those images so relevant to their times. Her work looks like a pastiche - trying to be spiritual with no idea of what she is talking about.
The home renovations are doing us in.
Late February…
The renovations are still doing us in. I have given up finding anything. A deep layer of dust has turned my home into an archaeological dig. The kitchen is covered in tea towels and clothes to prevent us being poisoned with all the cement and plaster dust. Also I remember that an old friend from my student days working in the mountains is coming over with her youngest son who is now 16 for a week. MY body shudders at the work involved. I am also moving out of K’s studio that week as well. I need my assistant back. He sent me a Christmas card but will not return my phone calls. Am I going to be reduced to pleading with him?
During my illness, Em brought over all her videos of Sex and the
City. I can’t remember my generation being so angst ridden about
sex and relationships but then the pill was just out and AIDs hadn’t
been discovered yet. I got hooked on it. There’s nothing like
watching other women screw up on relationships and identifying with them
to make your flu fly away. So now I watch the double bill late on
Wednesday nights after the research day. I tell dearest and nearest it
relaxes the mind so that I can sleep.
He said, ‘Do you realise that you use less brain cells watching
television than when you are asleep.’
The banker who is now in Sheffield working for the University emailed and asked if I wanted to meet for lunch at our favourite restaurant in Soho. Of course I did. I’ll meet anyone for a free lunch. It was lovely and he is as unhappy as ever. So everything is normal. He thinks I am nuts for attempting a higher degree at my age at my age. How dare he! He thinks that just because he has a gold credit card he is urbane and sophisticated.
At college I am attempting to put on an interim show with three other students on my course. One of them is on heavy medication and it is hard work. She has a tendency to look through you to some other universe when talking to you. It makes communication a bit difficult at times to say the least. The thinking isn’t quite joined up so that she carries on two conversations at once impervious to the fact you are trying to discuss serious details. A few things have got rather mixed up and confused.
K and I went to the PV of the Atom Egoyan show at what used to be the
Museum of Mankind but is now part of the Royal Academy. We toyed with the
idea of not going at all until he pointed out that they were charging £7
otherwise to see it. Stuff that! After the opening when we were walking to
the tube K said he thought it was not worth paying any money to see it, as
the PV was bad enough. I didn’t quite agree but then nobody walked
off with my bottle of beer that I just paid for when I put it down to blow
my nose. We didn’t know anybody there. K was on the look out for his
brother who is not speaking to at the moment. Apparently they had a bust
up at Xmas, as so many of us do with family. Only some of us don’t
let it get out of control like K. He sent his Xmas present back. I thought
was going a little too far. At our age we don’t get too many presents
at Xmas. I must admit it was a bit much seeing tape looping around a room
again. It was so 1970s. Heard a yawn being stifled from behind me during
the long shuffle through the installation. At one stage we were in a small
room standing about three feet in front of a twelve-foot screen. It does
something to your sense of space. K muttered it was more to do with your
eyesight than space but that was before he lost his beer. I did bump into
the curator known affectionately as the “poisoned dwarf”.
He’s small as ever and still looks like a Jewish Mickey Mouse. It
amazes me who gets work these days.
We were supposed to be meeting Bet but she is so busy that she skips PV’s
and goes home to bed to catch up on her beauty sleep. I just rolled my
eyes backwards when she confessed this over tea and cake at Maison
Berteaux the next Saturday. Jet lag is one of the downsides of her job. It
doesn’t wash with me as now I have no part-time or full-time work of
any sort and my sales and commissions are thin on the ground. I have no
downside to anything at the moment except the maniac I am married to who
decides suddenly to renovate the house room by room.
‘What’s the matter with your dealer?’ she sneered at me
when I rolled my eyes backwards and said she was fortunate to have a
disadvantage to anything. ‘Don’t you remember the story of her
breaking her leg then it getting infected with a microbe-resistant bug in
hospital so that some how one leg has come out shorter than the other and
that after three years of endless operation she is massively depressed and
just getting back into dealing again.’
‘Did you make that up?’
‘I can’t lie that good?’
‘How do you pick them.’
‘Look Bet if you could just mention my name and how talented I am to
some of the dealers and collectors and general high and mighty that you
swan around with just once then maybe I wouldn’t be in such a
situation.’
‘You couldn’t afford the bribes. Just get yourself a decent
gallery and dealer. You used to have one.’
‘I used to have a lot of things and I don’t now.’
‘You’re impossible. Look, My birthday is coming up and I am
thinking of having a birthday lunch for a few select people.’
‘You’re not going to cook, are you? Besides, you don’t have
a birthday every year.’
‘This is special.’
‘I looked at her for a moment with raised brows while I did a quickie
mental calculation. ‘Bloody hell Bet! You’re 50. Aren’t
you?’ and she actually blushed.
‘Well. My beau thought it....’
‘Bet since when did you call one of your many men, your beau? How
coquettish.’ She went even redder.
‘Do you want to come or not? R is cooking a meal at his place in the
country. We are all going out there. He suggested it. And my beau thought
that it would be nice if we all drank champagne on the train out. I am not
inviting your husband or G or Em.’
‘Why not G and Em. You have known them over 15 years. They will be
very hurt.’
Well as it would happen Em and her have had a serious fallen out. At least according to bet. I have yet to hear Em’s side of the story. I wonder if Em has any idea of it happening. Later that week I was trying to phone Bet to clarify a few details about her forthcoming party so I telephoned her on her mobile. It’s the only way to get hold of her these days. To my shock, horror she was on the Eurostar blithely zooming throughout the French countryside and quaffing champagne as she sped along to her skiing holiday. I say shock, horror because it is so expensive to phone out of the country to her mobile. I never get asked to go with them as she knows I am too broke. Which is true but it would be nice to be asked just so I could refuse - once in a while. I heard what seemed like G’s maniacal laugh in the background going off like a demented dog. I couldn’t get her off the ’phone and it was costing me a packet. So I pretended that I couldn’t hear her because the reception was so bad. Pathetic I know that but there you go if you are an impecunious artist like me.
Is Em a bit do-lally from her antidepressants ? Or is Bet going bonkers
on the menopause? Or is it, as G so sweetly told me, that
‘Bet is on her usual form. She has to be pissed off with somebody.
Usually it’s one of her men. But as she has gone soft on the last
four and Em has picked the short straw. Actually Em has never been more
calm and rational and together in her life. Marriage suits her. She is
working part time with a small firm of publishers well out of the art
world and she is very happy. I expect any day she will announce that she
is pregnant. Talking of which my friend who has the long distant husband
is pregnant and has gone all gooey and mumsy. Amazing isn’t it what
hormones do to a woman. This stuff called oestrogen and progesterone it’s
all pretty powerful. I know I could be called an essentialist, which I was
by G when we pondered on the thought in my studio over tea one day. She
sweetly dropped by to see how I was surviving the renovations.
‘Well .. I am not but you can’t get away from the body and its
functions. At first I was really apprehensive about stopping my cycle but
now I would never go back.’
I was actually talking about the house and the renovations, not your body’s.
I gave her a mean look. Wait ’til she starts the menopause.
She continued, ‘I want to get pregnant soon. So I have decided on a
sperm bank and fertility drugs.’
‘It may be too late, G.’
‘No way!’ What does one say against such determination? So I
changed the subject.
‘What are you getting Bet for her 50th?’
She lit up with glee. ‘A subscription for a year to a gym.’
‘That’s nice…. And expensive. Where did you get all that
money from?’
‘Oh! It’s a special deal and she’ll need all the help she
can as I have a new job.’ All said ever so causally.
I stopped what I was doing and glanced over my electric drill.
‘Oh it’s working in Cork Street. A slight drop in pay but I
thought I could afford it now my great uncle left me a little money.’
And smiled sweetly at me.
‘I suppose you got danger money for working in the Burbs and who is
this great uncle and how come he was so foolish to leave you money?’
Well good luck to her. The art world is a vicious place. Of course the knock on effect for me is a better class of private view to go to and nicer hor d’oeuvres at the openings. So I just smiled back and said, ‘Nice one G.’
End of March
The interim show proved to be pure hell and a lot of hard work. Basically just one bloke and myself did all the work. The third student was and still is on heavy medication. We had Friday and Saturday to paint walls and hang work. So I went after the lunch with the banker. I was in a “going-to-lunch” outfit. And unfortunately I forgot to bring any painting clothes .So I stripped down to knickers, a T-shirt and my cowboy boots, put on my walkman and got on with the job singing along to Janis Joplin at the top of my voice. Suddenly I knew someone was in the room. I had locked the door.
Turning around I saw one of the fruitier fashion students mincing about.
He was wheeling in a big fashion dummy dressed in one of his creations
oblivious to anything. . He placed it on a plinth and began tweaking its
ruffles. I went over to him and watched in amazement.
‘What do you think, luv?’
‘Is the wearer supposed to wear knickers with it?’
‘NOOOOOO not really.’
‘It could be chilly.’
‘UMMMMMMMM ’ and then he began clicking away with his camera.
Then he left taking everything with him. I locked the door again.
He hadn’t even noticed anything strange. Here I am, middle aged woman
paint spattered dressed in bikini knickers, a tea shirt and cowboy boots
dancing around painting the walls. I have cellulite and I am not slim. He
didn’t bat an eyelid. I have seen him around the collage since and
actually mouthed ‘Hello’ in the dinner queue but he looked at me
like he had never seen me before.
At times putting on the show was a real headbanger but in the end it
looked great. I realised that I had done a lot of work, It still is not
what I want but I am getting there. The private view was packed and the
wine was great.
Bet came the next morning at 8:30 to see it as it was the only time she
had.
I have come to realise that academia is stranger than the art world. Artists are relatively normal compared to these people. I forgive all my artist friends for all the strange but wonderful quirks that I have accused them of and condemned them for in the past. I am beginning to think that they are the only sane people in the world.
Parents aren’t any better either. In fact my dad has collapsed from exhaustion after looking after my mum for so long. They are very old now and just want to sit in front of the fire and let others take care of them. Unfortunately none of their children live within 1,000 miles of them. All the large extended family is dwindling on both sides now. Only middle aged nieces and nephews are around and they are exhausted from their own commitments to family and work. Then again my mother’s sharp tongue doesn’t help any. We were debating on going for a visit. But it will have to wait until the Fall. Money is so short at present. I have emailed, faxed and telephoned my brothers into going for visits. It is hard work!
Studio is finally finished - all the new storage and shelves have been built and everything unpacked. I was so tired I went to the doctor and all she did was ask me what I’d been up to recently. When I told her, she just looked at me and said stay in bed for a week or take a holiday!!
Copyright © : n.paradoxa, July 2002
N.Paradoxa : Issue No. 16, 2002