I usually start by making a list.
The list then spiders out into an unhappy cloud of things that need doing.
Somethings have been reappearing in this sad sky for years – make a radio program that dissects the state of critical engagement within this scene (new addition: stop using the word ‘scene’ it’s hideous), use the random pile of ‘lovely’ wood that you have been carrying around with you for a sculpture about the suicide of Kurdt Kobain, order a subscription to Art Monthly (I mean, fuck, just read Art Monthly, just once, cover to cover), update my website that something that isn’t piss taking nonsense.
I didn’t do that today, not totally deliberately I must admit, I just sat and drew and drank coffee after coffee til I felt incredibly blinky eyed and weird. I listened to Delia Derbyshire and Townes Van Zandt on headphones and wrote some odd cut up sentences about their song titles. I went through all the ink in a freshly opened Pocsa marker.
Behind me there was some sort of business conference taking place over the shoulder height wall of work desks that have been set up as the demarcation line of the studio. It was hard to make out what they were saying. Surprisingly, approaching it in a mixture of boredom and contempt and having headphones in wasn’t the best way to understand it, so I have no revelations about that. It did just make me worry more about this annex of a back room of a night club that I am working in. But no more than a slight worry as I was busy running out the ink and not making lists.
