From half of my life in war-torn Belfast to the terraced streets of Manchester to the vast expanses of the East Kent countryside, I have finally ended up in what on the surface appears to be the set for the next sequel of Stepford wives. Very white (which my husband is not), very middle-class, very professional and quite lot of majors and brigadiers etc. Of course on getting to know everyone they’re just as mad as the rest of us, and we have some ridiculous times together with some fantastic friends but on the whole, most people fall into a similar bracket. And so it was I ended up drinking coffee at the village hall coffeeshop, an honorary member of the little group of those that don’t fit the mould. Spearheaded by a lovely American friend and single mum, she was once a singer songwriter in New York, and is now struggling to continue her music from her council house in the tiny little close that has survived here. As a result of her kindness and enthusiasm , five of us now meet on a regular basis, an island of irregularity in an otherwise strictly ordered community. Halfway through coffee, an idea suddenly filled my head.
A curator has approached me for a project where an item is given to a group of artists to alter and evolve into a piece of work. This has been ticking away in the back of my mind but it was over coffee that an idea suddenly solidified. It is as I reflect on this experience that I understand more of why I fit in so well to this group. I left the group to collect the dog and walk up for school pickup. Walking up to school the idea grew and developed, and I began as I always do (and I discovered I shared this thought with Ricky Gervais who articulated it so well in a recent interview) to worry that I might die before I got the chance to make it. On collecting the children, I entirely forgot that I had one of them beside me, and continued to wait an extra fifteen minutes for her to appear from the school door. Finally as reality sunk in I headed home with the children only to discover a half a mile later that I had forgotten the dog and left him tied to the school fence. It was on returning for the dog and facing the puzzled looks from fellow parents that I realised how this art thing that is inside me means I will never make it as a fully fledged Stepford wife, and how my place in the little coffee group is secure for a while yet.
Trying to earn money is such damned hard work. After two successive projects, and eighty odd people exposed to a full blast of creativity, I am certainly financially healthier (albeit in two months time when the cheques come through) however physically, I am totally shattered. Life seems to be a constant swing between less paid work, more studio work and more paid work, less studio work with a bank balance like a rollercoaster to prove it (although with mostly downs that’s not a great analogy). With four children, no family around and a husband out of the house between seven and it 8.30 at night – well, I’m pooped. I always know when I’ve stretched myself too far because it ends in tears. Feeble I know, it’s not for any reason other than fatigue, but eventually I will have a little bubble. Anyway – i’m not there yet so I’ll stop moaning.
nice things – studio work has really taken on a new phase for me and when I look back over the three years in which have returned to making and exhibiting, I can see so clearly the natural development that has brought me to where I am now. Whereas initially it was one piece slowly followed by another, the studio is now full of evolving bits of work, some which will develop into large pieces some which will feed into others and all of which are immeshed together in an ongoing exploritory practice. I’m happy with that. I’m very sluggish to apply for opportunities at the moment I know but that is partly because I’m enjoying working so much and partly because I want to concentrate on developing the opportunity in 2012. It’s always nice when people contact me though and proposed opportunities from curators pop up now on then and keep me going. Years ago, without an online presence, contacts like this would have been impossible, so for artists outside the main cities and unable to network at art events etc due to family commitments, the internet has been a complete lifesaver.
How absolutely delicious it is to paint with oil based household gloss paint. At the moment in the studio, among other things, I have been painting a shelf with pink household gloss. The glide of the brush is so satisfying, the way the gloss paint pools and unavoidably drips in areas is so evocative of the white glossed windowsills of my 70s childhood. Back then, bored as I often was as more or less an only child, (my sister had married when I was very young), I would relish sinking my teeth into a highly glossed windowsill in my room while my parents entertained the relatives next door, or into the varnished pews of our village church while we dutifully knelt in prayer. I cannot now see or touch glossed windowsills or wooden church pews without my teeth feeling on edge and the taste of the painted and varnished wood as it gave satisfyingly under my bite filling my mind. Hopefully the lead hasn’t left any lasting damage!
Writing blog posts is so much more fun than cleaning the bathroom for visitors coming.
Things have improved immeasurably this year, I’ve no idea why, but I think I ended the year on quite a difficult personal note. More community-based projects have meant financial disaster is staved off for another while, and I’m in a much happier place with my work. I’ve cut myself some slack and stopped reprimanding myself are not applying for more opportunities. Instead I am enjoying the making process and allowing it to take me to the places emotionally and psychologically that it naturally urges me to go.
It seems sometimes that nowadays there is a pressure to conform to the image of the ideal artist. The collaborator, the intellectual, the person that can freely engage the curator of the private view, articulating the content of their work in a dynamic, thought through and globally relevant way. The researcher, whose work explores and mines information, creating work which is highly sophisticated in it’s output, the socially and politically informed, who can guide a meeting and instigate cutting-edge projects and groups.
On a good day I can be some of these, but other days I skulk in the corner of the gallery private view, suddenly no longer remembering my elevator talk* or more commonly, wanting to keep my words and oh so personal ideas to myself. This year I will be the artist I am. The project I’m about to launch, has resulted from a recent show I did ‘Invasion of Privacy’. It will hopefully result in a kind of collaboration that fits with me, if not, it is something I need to do for myself.
On another note in connection with the proposed exhibition in 2012 I have a meeting with the forensic officer at the local police station, which is the result of a bag of hair given to me by an older friend kept from the early days of her marriage. But more of that after the meeting takes place.
*An elevator talk, according to my husband is a two-minute speech you can give at any place at any time (ie. in an elevator) which promotes yourself and your business to anyone you happen to come across. Hope you’ve got yours!
Tom Lubbock, the art critic died, how sad. His wonderful, honest writing will be missed,
These blobs have nothing hidden about their materials or making. They are messily stuck together. … What could these things be doing in our lives? And what are they doing in their own company?
(Tom Lubbock reviews Phyllida Barlows work at the Serpentine)
