The Pearl Fisher

Yours Testily

Hi Alex,

Best
Kate

I am exhausted. Lethargy holds me gently on the sofa I only attempt to break her grasp when I can hold on to my bowels no longer. The illness which beset both myself and my dear companion last night lingers, a deadly sweat was upon us all last night. We both feel drained and listless. The above email found me in poor humour this morning. The image I had sent was admittedly only a mere 72dpi but was nearly a metre wide which I thought would do. Stubbornly I resized it to A6 at a higher dpi and testily sent it back with a message suggesting that any graphic designer worth his or her salt could do this for themselves. I fully expect it to be printed upside down with a secret message stating my resemblance to the rear end of a horse. This would not upset me but I do hope I did not upset Miss Phillimore.

Sickness

Ebb tide in appetite- cannot eat, cannot sleep, diary is all that is left to me. My companion and I have been struck down with an ague or is it a pox? I know no more than we make frequent, and lately unproductive, visits to the bathroom while feeling vague and listless. A bath is drawn next door but neither feels the inclination to take it. Outside the town’s revelry has begun with the usual shouts, catcalls and musical abrasions that punctuate a Friday night in the centre of Ipswich. My companion, more productive than I, is replying to letters from siblings. She as a large number, sisters all, of which I have met three.

Gutteral cackling in the street below, low and menacing.

In my weakened state I am finding concentration difficult. Unable to settle to any task I have left letters unanswered, emails unread. Earlier I set down a list of ‘things to do’ but with little conviction. Not on the list were the vexed issue of my sideburns. I have decided to apply a little rigour to them for my visit to the opening weekend of the biennale. I have determined that the best course of action is to choose an image from one of Mr Cushing’s vampire films and to scientifically and painstakingly reproduce his sideburns in living bristle. Perhaps I have said this before?

Trot of heels, steady and regular.

Some time later.

Deleria

Fire ants swarm over my body. Deep in the left ear something dark and heavy broods. My companion is raving. She thinks we may be haemophiliacs but I think she means hypochondriacs.

She is recalling a haemophiliac boy at her school with blood red hair. He used to stab his hand with a compass to avoid geography tests.

Heavy beat from a passing car

Must sleep

Thursday, 3 June 2010

Homewards on the Ipswich Flyer

We are travelling back to Ipswich 3rd class. A necessity brought on by overcrowding on the 7o’clock train. Both my companion (who is knitting a rather bad scarf) and I are perspiring slightly after being forced to run a brisk 400 yards past all the (empty) first class carriages. Monika passed over a large wheeled case at the café. Business done we had a pleasant chat about cats, holidays and the next series of shows to be held at her gallery on Cambridge Heath Road “Stardust Boogie Woogie”. Following this we made a brief visit to an art suppliers and then went on to see Rachel Harrison’s exhibition at the Whitechapel. Upon entering we were accosted by a gang of hired barkeeps who insisted we drink bourbon. I do not know if this was meant to improve our experience but to my mind the installation of colourful anthills and tat was joyful enough not to need any artificial enhancement.

It has come to a point where preparations must be made. Numerous requests are arriving from the Biennale team. Mainly they are to do with publicity and the low resolution of my images. It is a perennial problem as screen shots from my video work never seem to be enough for print. I constantly tell myself I must take documentary photographs but my memory was never good. I have recently sought to correct this laxity by purchasing a new high definition video camera which also takes decent still images. I did think perhaps I should have done this before filming ‘Call’ but on first trying the camera I find the image cold and unfriendly. Nevertheless I have put aside my Luddite leanings and yesterday I made a short film of a scrolling starscape.

On what must be the hottest day my companion and I are dragging our tired limbs around the east end galleries. Truthfully we are sitting in the Café Hurwundeki knitting and watching an artist talk about himself. He has managed a quarter of an hour without breath and is now holding forth on how difficult it is when someone one doesn’t like is a fan of one’s work. We are waiting for Monika Bobinska who has been desperate for me to take back my work for some time now. I had been putting off it’s collection on no particular pretext other than an unwillingness to drag a wheeled case across London. We have seen a couple of shows. Neither of us have been particularly thrilled however and we had to leave Cell Project space in haste when my companion had a fit of the vapours. She is in a strange state of mind at the moment, nervous and distracted. That eminent artist, not put off by her Parisian avoidance tactics, is now frantic to meet her and I assume paint her. He has sent a message via an intermediary stating he is willing to “pay over the odds” for the pleasure.

Sunday, 30 May 2010

A warning

Upon my return from the north I found myself in a condition of extreme exhaustion. It was close to midnight when I finally crept into bed. I craved no more than easeful rest. Unfortunately in inverse proportion to my ennervation my companion seemed full of life. She talked and fidgetted, bounced and laughed until I was so desperate I held her still, her wrists shackled in one hand, her hair clutched in the other. This did not help. In quieter moments my companion sings to me at night. Although she often forgets the words they are beautiful stories of cowboys and lost love. One of my favourites is “Lydia the tatooed lady” a woman who, when the words come to mind, ends up marrying an Admiral who loves the ships afloat on her hips. This morning I read news of the world’s most tatooed lady Julia Gnuse. According to reports she is 95% covered in ink and first decided to go under the needle in order to hide scars from porphyria cutanea tarda. I remembered from my reading that it had been suggested that Porphyria was a disease thought to be linked to vampirism. Vlad III the Impaler himself believed to be an antecedent of the Dracula character was also said to had suffered from Acute Porphyria a condition causing extreme sensitivity to sunlight.

My google erudition has also led me (after many years) to a rereading of Browning’s poem “Porphyria’s Lover” transcribed below. I feel it needs little comment.

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me – she
Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight’s gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,