I listened to a man this week. He told me a story of stories. He said, if he had a book, an autobiography and he asked the writer the story of that book, they would tell him a story of a life, of ups and downs, of successes and failures, of hopes and dreams. But if he asked the printer, he or she would tell him a different story, a story of trees and of paper and of ink and printing presses. And if he asked the publisher, he or she would have another story. All stories are the truth, but each can only tell you something of the truth. Science has a story, but art can tell us another story.
I thought about my story. My website tells a story, of exhibitions, of grants, successful projects, awards and residencies, but it is only one story. I could tell you a story of unfinished pieces, of sketchbooks of unmade ideas, of small successes in the studio no-one will see, of opportunities left unapplied for.
For others who know me it will be a story of children, school gates, dog walks and community events – they will know nothing of the above.
I am not in London, not even in a city as such, I am not guided and challenged by the talented staff of a respected institution, I have no reading list other than the snatched and mismatched paragraphs of writers, critics and philosophers I happen to grasp at through the disjointed busyness of each day. I apply for a select few opportunities, at times I am successful and my work whispers amongst the many voices in group exhibitions, at times curators seek me out, other periods are quieter.
It’s not the story I had planned when I first graduated, and with a large family to bring up my days of residencies in exciting places are purely a memory, but in the studio with materials and tools scattered around me, slowly and quietly, I continue to write.
