Rest: the sweet sauce of labour

The artist was tired yesterday and took a deserved break, watching among other things a three-part documentary on ("Pablo Ruiz") Picasso. She sat there on the bright red sofa with a duvet across her lap looking like a clothed little mermaid. As the life of the prolific legend unrolled before her like an endless carpet. (The person on the sofa also never stops working, never prefers the easy option.) She had worked until two in the morning the night before, having spent the earlier part of the day catering for a friend's two children who were enjoying a sleepover with our two children. But the fruits of her labour were at least in evidence on the wall behind her as she fixed her eyes on the inexhaustible Picasso and his work. I looked at her new piece closely. The depth-of-field in particular. I looked at the piece next to it. The two figures vulnerable. Picasso also enjoyed a long and fascinating biographical thread, we were learning: his images were nowhere near as random as my ignorance had told me. I moved back to the table, dealing with the edges of my own next steps - made small by the great man's work - and my thoughts rolled like a silver ball-bearing from memories of the weekend and my sisters to thoughts about the continued need to find a gallery. (I convinced her to write to an old and well connected friend and artist yesterday and she received a positive reply today.) There is comfort in the fact there is no insincerity. Indeed, today, in the heart of the capital, talking with a friend off to the war zone, I found myself extolling the virtues of the artist. I didn't go into any real detail. But I didn't have to. He was at her last exhibition in the capital. In fact, if he gets back from the war zone in one piece, perhaps he will be at her next.