On A Winter's Afternoon

Our son was asking me so many questions on the train I had run out of answers by the time we reached our destination. As a further token of respect for the artist, I had disappeared with the children into the centre of the capital with some tokens of another kind to spend on clothes. Our daughter was serene throughout, enjoying her brother's inquiring, and watched everyone and everything as the grey clouds and threatened rain competed later with the sales and aimlessly wandering couples. We talked about the artist as we walked, each agreeing she was really committed to what she was doing. It is a curious but compelling thing, the artist locked like a hermit into her work like this. Any time spent without something to work on must be hellish for her and though she leaps like a rare grasshopper from one blade of work to the other she always seems to make it across. Presently the large green blade she has landed on is swaying slightly, but she is safe, her strong paws clamped gecko-like on the flat but expanded part of the leaf that is above the sheath and away from the stem. Is art insecurity or security? I suppose it is a mixture of both, though to the children, I suspect, it still appears as natural as breathing. But I am certainly aware it involves for the artist pain as well as pleasure. At one point while still walking we passed a large group of people chanting against the tyranny of their country, their foreign voices filling the street with chatter. As we drew closer, we walked faster, though the children at no stage appeared scared. When we returned home the artist had been working for over four hours. She didn't say anything after giving everyone, including me, a kiss and warm embrace, but I could tell she was more than a little curious about what I thought of the work to date on the new piece. I was deeply impressed by the work and intimidated by it too.