The Pearl Fisher

Last night my companion and I battled through slush and icy rain to a little gathering at Firstsite in Colchester. There were drinks and and nibbles. What neither of us realised and was that the drinks were a trick to engineer a round table feedback discussion about the Fifteen Artists Fifteen Days mini residencies. Luckily as I had not been involved I was allowed to sit on the sofa and watch as each artist was invited to introduce themselves and praise the format of the event. Comfortably excluded I was able to observe the phenomenon known as “creeping death”. This title, previously unknown to me was explained eloquently afterwards by Lawrence Bradby. All started well with even a little enthusiasm and intelligent comment but at the baton was passed from speaker to speaker they seemed to lose heart, proceeded to repeat previous, safe, comments and rely on a sort of consensual blandness and jollity that can be seen in those suffering from drug induced stupor. I munched my mince pie and supped my wine sympathetically, very glad the I was not in the circle of creeping death.