The Practice of Everyday Life…
I haven’t done much since finishing that pair of pants. I don’t intend to now until after Christmas. I know I said in a previous post I was going to start on the greatcoat, but I had forgotten one crucial factor… Everyday Life.
I moan about decorations being up too early and Christmas music in shops, and enforced jolliness… Why does Christmas have to be brightly lit, gaudy and jolly? Can’t Christmas be peaceful, thoughtful, reflective? Some people hate Christmas, and have good reasons to. This senseless commercial overkill must be physically painful, heartbreaking, sickening.
I actually love Christmas… I love decorations, and trees inside the house and food and drink and family and friends, but I like it to start just the week before (about now) and I like to take it all away on January 2nd. And I like to remember people who aren’t with me to celebrate any more. I like to get sentimental and cry a little too. Christmas isn’t just one tone.
So, The Practice of Everyday Life (title borrowed from Michel de Certeau)…
I have dusted as an artist, vacuumed as an artist, made pastry for mince pies, made The Legendary Elena Thomas Lemon Shortbread, cranberry sauce and printed labels for parcels, all as an artist… which means I am doing it all consciously instead of resentfully, enjoying the feel of it all, and that feeling of satisfaction, the haptic reward of physical jobs, completed.
I had my hair cut as an artist and in a fit of festive whimsy, allowed the hairdresser to colour a small amount of it green. It is making me laugh. People either think it is stupid (which makes me laugh) or they think it is cool (which makes me laugh) or they think I think it’s cool (which makes me laugh). It’ll wash out in a week or so. But I did buy a bottle… so it might appear again for my birthday or somesuch occasion! I am resisting the urge to brighten up my husbands eyebrows while he sleeps (which makes me laugh).
Have a happy Christmas if you can dear readers… and if you can’t, my thoughts are with you.
