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My practice is like a jigsaw at the moment. Broken up in the box. A few pieces are down the back of the sofa. A couple of bits look they belong to a different puzzle. It’s a hospital waiting room sort of puzzle. It occupies for short periods, destined to never be completed.

I crack on, tackling what I can when I can. That bit of sky in the corner… The long green dress of some mad woman with a bonnet and an apron beckons, but there’s a crucial bit missing.

Analogy pushed to the limit of good English and sanity…………

My search for a studio continues. A rush of activity is followed by a period of stagnation and waiting for email and phone call replies… Meanwhile… In a crowded, box-filled dining room, I sit with my back to the detritus, pretending it isn’t there. The microphone stand mocks me, poised, about to peck at the back of my neck. The looper, on its stand, is covered with a bit of French fabric… Yellow, woven, jolly squares, trying to blend the technology with the homespun. It illustrates my constant oscillation between two worlds, trying to blend them. The words I sing blend them. But if I’m not singing, it just looks incongruous.

I sit with my back to it all, and enter the Jerwood Drawing Prize. Actually no, I don’t. I register, and print out forms, and fanny about. Indecisive.

I write a pretentious proposal, print it out, rip it up.

I stitch words onto the detached shirt cuff. I’ve already lost faith in the relevance of the words, and I’m able to stitch without reading them, so it’s little more than occupational therapy. But I continue anyway. The process is nevertheless meditative and hopeful. It’s a bit like colouring in at this point. I just follow the lines and don’t think. Sometimes a word foists itself into my conscious mind… But I have to dredge deep for the meaning out of context….character…..bone….stranger….. blind…. The individual words seem to mean more than the complete text. Redaction distils.

I write words. For blogs, emails, admin, shopping lists, facebook and twitter. They don’t mean much. I write another verse for a song. I give in to tradition… Verse, verse, chorus, verse, middle eight, chorus (repeat)… I hum a top line and record with my phone in order to play it to the guys next meeting.

I’m rehearsing the songs for Nine Women again. (On and off) Those women… How I love them, how they sustain me!

In amongst all this sits the next BIG IDEA. Sonia Boué and I have been discussing turning the online Museum for Object Research into something real. This was a speculative conversation that has grown. We both decided if we are going to do it, it’s got to be big. No, BIG. We feel this could be a really important piece of work. A pivotal event that pushes on our practice and hopefully will have an effect on the practice of several other artists. It would have a solid theoretical, critical basis and leave a legacy. I’m glad we are in it together, because at the moment it is a monumental task. And shit scary.

I’m off to do a bit of colouring in and do a bit more of the jigsaw.

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I went shopping to my favourite vintage shop.
http://www.teagownsandtextiles.co.uk
It’s in Bromyard, Herefordshire, but worth a trip.

I’m looking at children’s clothes again for a new project, more about which later, when it has coalesced into something more meaty!

I found these two items, I don’t yet know if I will use either or both, or if I find something I like better, neither! But knowing the way I go about things, I have established a relationship with these garments… Yes … I know…. You don’t have to tell me it’s weird, I’m just telling you that’s how it is, ok? They will be used at some point soon.

What I look for is rather hard to pin down, but probably is “just” to do with character. The garment has character, which enable me to know the wearer.

What is very unusual for me is the fact I bought the blue coat… It has never been worn, the labels are still attached, the lining is faded rather than stained or worn. It is, I feel, this absence that might make this coat the very thing to use………

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Networking Events are bloody hard work if you ask me.

I’ve been to a few, wandering about with a weirdly flavoured crisp in my hand and a glass of warm white vinegar… or perhaps a strangely metallic orange juice. I might have a name label. If my name is spelled correctly I might wear it. If it’s not, I might just leave.

I look around the room for someone that I already know. If there isn’t anyone, I might just leave.

Sometimes a keen enthusiastic person might say “Hello! who are you?”. I am mostly horrified by this, and at the earliest opportunity without appearing rude, I might just leave.

Sometimes I make myself stay.

Sometimes I make myself talk to someone.

On these occasions I never give a good account of either myself or my work. I might as well have just left.

Sometimes, Private Views are like this too. If the work is good, I might stay. If I don’t like it, I might just leave.

All of these things I enter into with a sense of optimism, that can be seen on my car park ticket. The event runs from 6-8, so instead of paying for the hour I struggle to manage, I have paid for four hours, having in my head some ideal situation where I discover a bundle of like-minded souls who say, “Let’s go to the pub!” and we continue the scintillating conversation and live happily ever after.

This never happens. Or if it does, I’m not there, because they’ve all been waiting for me to leave before anyone suggests it, in case I decide to go with them and make it a miserable affair.

On the other hand…

I have a network.

My network consists of people with whom I have had accidental, incidental conversations with. These people might have said things to me in a corner of a pretentious exhibition, that have made me snort wine down my nose. They stayed with me to provide cover while I composed myself.

These people have, over a period of several years, been kind to me…offered wisdom and consolation… sworn derisively… posted interesting articles on Facebook… made pithy comments about my work on my blog… asked really difficult questions that make me think… shared cake… made me tea just how I like it (or not, but they have hobnobs, so it’s ok) … I have chatted about everything and anything. They have made a beeline for me and we have hugged… I have cheered and spilled milk all over them… I have sung songs with… played bad percussion with… I have laughed, or cried with them…I have held very serious political conversations that are ended with comments that cannot be argued with like “Yeah, but he’s a knob and his mouth frays at the edges…”

This is PROPER NETWORKING… this cannot be faked. The real thing. These are the networks that provide opportunity, support, friendship and love – yes – love… and I’ll take that over the professionally plastic sort any day.

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The closed boxes….
Whether they belong to Schrödinger or Pandora…

While closed, they hold the possibilities.
While closed, the world is safe.
While closed, everything holds promise of wealth and glory, but can never be achieved.
We stand still, permanently in a state of waiting, watching, and never realising, never growing or knowing or learning anything.

I don’t think it is in the artist’s nature to leave the box closed, “just in case”: but to open it, “just in case”

Endeavour is the thing.
It’s no use holding the key unless you use it.
The box, the case, the email, the file, the brown envelope are useless.
They are not things of purpose unless you open them.

There is no point in collecting the trinkets.
What you have to do is open the box, the case, the email, the file, the envelope…
And face the consequences.
Deal with it…. Pause…. Reflect…. Refuel…. And move on….