Once An Artist

Part of the process in this rare separation of the artist from her art is the accompanying withdrawal on the part of the artist into a kind of silence and reflection and distance. I suppose I am secure within the relationship as I don't take it personally when along with the art I'm in some ways left behind. The broad canvas which is the atmosphere of this valley ensures the big picture, anyway. Furthermore, the rushing water, soft mist, oxygen of trees, spaces us out, obviously in more ways than one. Nature points a green finger and tells us to slow down. The water says, 'Let me do the rushing.' You can't even call it a return to full-time mothering on the part of the artist, as that's something which has never been compromised. No, it is the sleep of the just. At one stage, I offer to make tea and the artist's eyes light up at the prospect of having a warm cup brought to a warm bed, and when she nods off with it a few minutes later reading a novel about jealousy and betrayal, the cup slips from her hand and soaks all the bed sheets. She keeps apologising - for being tired, for this, for that - but has no need to. But I do know what's coming next. Our daughter knows too. And it does. As sure as this blog reaches its end. She wants to get some images upstream.