It seems, having said I’m not going to take on any more, the world is helping me… the proposal I spent weeks writing has been rejected. The studio day I had planned has been postponed until after Christmas.
I’ve had a couple of grim days, not helped by an accidental bathroom tiling incident that has held the job back a couple of days. I would quite like to have a fully functioning bathroom by the weekend, but unless the second new bath arrives today that’s looking unlikely. “What has all this got to do with my art practice?” I hear you say – this is supposed to be an artist’s blog after all!
Well. Real life gets in the way. A mood can turn on a single incident, then spiral downwards out of control. I’m kind of paralysed, held in limbo by the peripheral occurrences around the selfish, self-obsessed centrality of my art. I find myself unable to make decisions, to settle to any task. I pither around looking at the inches of plaster dust in my house, physically and mentally unable to deal with any of it until the job is done and the men have gone, and I can reclaim the place my own.
I’m sure I will then turn into some sort of housework fiend, clear the decks, wash my hair*, have a shower, bake some cakes, put the kettle on and normal service will be resumed.
Can’t wait!
*My hair is a beast all its own, on a good day, it looks like a yew hedge that has had a good deal of topiary expertise spent on it. On a bad day I look like one of those rare-breed sheep that has been lost on the moors for 3 years. I have been known to find extra pairs of spectacles in there, and quite often a selection of pencils. Some days I wish it was taller, then I could keep my cheque book in it, like Marge Simpson, and dispense with the need for a handbag all together.
