Month 5/12
This project is absorbing me. I lose track of time, unable to notice that winter has gone. It’s the sun that reminds me of the approaching warmth—and of my exhibition, now only four months away.
How the time flies. When I mention it, people often respond in a relaxed way, reassuring me that four months is still miles away. But to me, it feels both distant and incredibly close—as if I can already smell the visualisation of it just ahead.
Much has already been done—and so much still to do. Today, I caught myself praising my own progress for the first time in a long while. I really took a moment to acknowledge what I’ve achieved solo. That moment of recognition came after a calm and nourishing conversation about a potential podcast episode with a Clinical Psychologist, host of A Guide to After Life. We spoke for almost an hour. It was soothing, full of genuine curiosity. I found myself interrupting a few times—eager to share, to ensure everything was mentioned.
March is also when I remembered my dad. It was his birthday. We went through his letters and photos, looked at his sketches, and shared a meal. I wrote a letter to him, something I do every year and raised a glass to all the love he gave and the memories we carry forward.
Most of the month has been gently focused on the early stages of exhibition promotion, curation, and refining the aesthetics. I had a lovely chat on local radio with Leslie Tate about my creative process. It felt more like sitting around a dinner table than a formal interview. The music I selected for the episode was deeply tied to my themes—have a listen if you’re curious.
One thing that surprised me was how natural it felt to select the drawings for the book and the installation. I had expected hours of indecision, back-and-forth, maybe even doubt. But the process was intuitive and grounding. Certain drawings just stepped forward. They held a quiet energy I couldn’t ignore—some tender, some a bit raw, all of them necessary.
As I placed them alongside the letters, a shift occurred. The drawings didn’t merely illustrate—they deepened the narrative, offered breathing room. They softened, provoked, held silences. Like the grief work itself: layered, delicate, often unresolved. Seeing them come together brought a quiet sense of satisfaction, a feeling that things are beginning to take shape in the physical world.
Curation, I’m learning, is an act of trust. Trust in the work. Trust in the process. Trust in the unseen rhythm that guides it all.
And yet, alongside these moments of clarity, I’ve faced challenges—particularly around marketing and visibility. I’ve reached out to a few local and national publications, sent off my press release, but haven’t heard anything back. It’s daunting, this part. Sharing something so personal and asking others to engage with it—to respond to it—can feel like a kind of exposure I’m not always ready for.
Promotion is the part I find hardest. I’ve created a strategy myself, and while I know experts who could support this stage beautifully, my funding doesn’t stretch that far. So I’m being careful, selective, doing what I can with what I have.
My mantra lately has been: I’m doing everything I can. I cannot do more. Whatever happens, happens. As long as I put all the effort in, it will come back—somehow, eventually.
I’ve made a few mistakes with funding. The project has grown so organically that it no longer fits neatly within the boundaries of my original application. Costs have multiplied. I did research, yes—but not deeply enough. I’m learning.
Despite it all, the making continues. I’ve been working on written features, and every new interview or essay feels like a chance to uncover something new.
I’ve now finalised the fabrication design. It was a challenge, with the letters being fragile and of varying sizes. Eventually, I chose to wrap the structure in robust, off-white muslin cotton. It lets light through, speaks to fragility and softness. The letters and drawings will be pinned to it—visible, tangible, held.
I’m also collaborating on a performance piece. We’re working on an experimental film that will include a soundscape, recordings of letter readings, and live performance.
My knitted piece is growing. I’m down to 100 letters—with 100 more to go. The physical process of making yarn is hard on the body, but the knitting itself brings joy. The letters, intertwined, feel alive. Their energy merging with mine.
This grief work continues to challenge my psyche. Movement helps—golf, sketching, being in nature offer an outlet for the tension. I also had a one-day silent retreat where listening took priority. I recently discoverd Mindfulness and drawing classes. In their own quiet ways, all of these remind me to pause and just be.
So here I am. Four months away. Still in the thick of it. Still learning.
