The Artist's Code

The artist worked until four o'clock in the morning and is still working now. She is what a friend of mine calls a grafter. Furthermore her visitor tomorrow is being treated like a king, by virtue of the amount of work the artist is putting in, and so he should be, and in a few days time I will be gone, my passport stamped, me flying across both mountains and desert, and some kind of verdict from the visitor in place. Still, I like all this intensity, enjoy both its calibre and drama, and the importance of this man's visit, certainly in terms of what it can do for the artist, cannot, should not, be underestimated, even if it does mean I am presently unable to share with the artist any feelings of apprehension I may have about returning to the war zone. I cannot for example discuss with her the prospects of dry mountains, epic space, mines, manners, weapons, vigilance and nerves. But this does not matter as ours is not a selfish relationship and I think both of us 'expect' the other to pursue expression with a kind of creative, if not purist, relentlessness. What has been interesting for me about these past few days has been the scrupulous manner in which the artist has harnessed herself so completely to the idea of 'collecting' the different works, 'binding' them with a kind of equality of detail, and 'shedding' any notion of disparity. In short, the work has been made conceptually more sound, which I suspect will not be lost on the visitor. Looking at the artist now, she bears what look like the scars of labour across her face, as pastel marks, like war paint, stripe each cheek with a kind of primitive authority, and black stains disrupt the self-drawn image on her t-shirt. I tried - with the promise of some Madeira cake - to tempt the artist to take a break, but already she is back to work, the opposite in fact of the eternal tea-breaking worker. We have a code for a tea break in the war zone. We call it Tango Bravo. We have a code at home, too. It is an artist's code. It is called work.