Dearest Blog 11,
The Black Period- Monday 5 to Sunday 11 June only
Hello there. Well?
Starting to get my breath back, following a month of factor ten whirlwind dervishness, intensified by my rental contract ending at the same time.
So, here I am back in the North West.
Unfortunately, it did not start off too great. Not because I am touching the void. Hel, no! That’s yet to smoulder.
The combination of bird poo and 888 did not foretell cookie fortune, much the opposite. En route from Dundee to Manchester, my rucksack was stolen.
Of course, it contained my two books filled with three years of paintings and sketches- they marked the progression of my cell aesthetic into schismic doodle, this plus all documentation of degree show ( 8 rolls of slides and film) not to mention £450 Minolta camera (Hong Kong), passport and all credit cards etc plus ipod for good measure.
The remaining five bags safely returned with me. They contain collage material- i.e old receipts, nik naks found in the street, bits of wood and general sCrap.
Typical.
I am not really sure how to handle this loss, I am feeling upset and angry, primarily because such original paintings are useless to the thieves, and will probably end up in the bin nowhere nothank between Dundee and Manchester. Broxden roundabout?
The irony of it all. Did the Chapmans feel this need to lament on Momart crisis? Something signals no. Probably the team reproducing copies of Hell for an oncoming show.
Moreover, this loss is compounded by a certain ‘cry wolf homework syndrome’.
Documentation is the currency for installation and now I ma definitely skint. I have a soupcon that "Jay cannot provide evidence of her previous show or drawing/painting development since her art work was stolen en route Megabus by the masked art highwayman" will be shunned by future exhibitors.
The feeling of losing art: something so precious and personal is grieving process which feels almost wrong. It’s irreplaceable material stuff but akin to the loss of a loved one. You feel almost ashamed that you harbour such emotion- Greek myth reveals adulation of one’s own art work fates being poked in eyes by a big sparrow then turned into bat with no wings over 3000 years. Horror war.
Doom and gloom.
Wabbit: [rustle rustle] Hang on. Everything’s dispensable, you really shouldn’t get precious, author’s dead, long live post-modern bin bag.
Hurrah atta spirit!!! Blobs say Ho!!!!!
Jay: Wabbit get back into your bubble wrap. Oh pants ye, I am auratic and my drawings transcended all humanity into the cosmos. Past Go, over Sun Ra and into oblivion.
Wabbit: oh dear… splobble
Jay: See ya in the next and almost final blog. I have three days to wallow in sulk.
