Eight Days

The impossibly famous artist has been in touch with the artist here, twice in the past few days, and now his assistant is in touch with her too, arranging a visit for him to see the artist's work. This has been ever since the artist wrote to him after he gave his email address. (And made my day by replying immediately.) This comes as some relief to all of us here, and for a variety of reasons too, including the fact I don't think the artist quite believed it when I said he would be in touch. I think she has been working so hard she has become creatively self-contained. She may have forgotten sometimes how to interact, and like many brilliant but retiring artists she can also mistake an art world that communes with itself, even celebrates, with a conspiracy against seriousness. Anyway, she now has eight days before he comes to see the work. This means eight in which to get her work in order. There are one or two things she must do with the two latest pieces, but she is almost there. I will be off to the war zone myself a few days later - I just received my new dates - so I hope it will be at least with some fresh hope for the artist that I take my deep breath and go under the metaphorical wire again. Since my sister died less than an hour after I landed a few weeks ago from my last trip, relations with the artist have been unusually strained. This has been partly my fault but it has also been as if the artist just wants the dam to break now and for her work to be allowed through, and it doesn't really matter too much about anything else apart from of course the children. This I suspect has contributed towards a kind of inner and outer rebelliousness on my part, which has not really been helpful of me, and has not been the case for almost a year now. At least when I saw the children's shining faces today before they were whisked off again, I saw something of a light within.