"Of all the wonders of nature, a tree in summer is the most remarkable; with the possible exception of a moose singing 'Embraceable You' in spats" *

Allow me to tell you something about one of the artist's pieces on the wall. It is placed to the right of the one being worked on presently, though it feels just as present. Basically it is a wilfully executed image of a tree, a laurel tree, in a fertile garden. It is like the garden of life and most of the image is like a controlled explosion of leaves and plants and ... well, life. There are flowers - yellow tulips, one or two red - and leaves and shrubs, and herbs, everywhere. Running through the piece is a lazy and lyrical half-hidden old wooden garden fence, not unlike a toy train pushed together by a child. To the right in the image, if you look closely enough, is a child, a boy, pulling a face. And yet the piece is not about him but about the tree, the garden. He is perhaps simply our chorus. And there is more. Through some of the laurel leaves you can see a hint of blue sky, but this is so framed by even more leaves and branches you have to work very hard to identify it as sky at all. I can remember the day the artist hunted out this image. Now it is on the living room wall awaiting the visit of a gallerist in a week or so. But it is reminding me of something else. Not just that you can be both orderly and wild, creative and masterly, at the same time. It also reminds me that what you see is not always what you get. (As if it wasn't enough in the first place.) I say this only because something was to happen we did not know at the time. You see, the laurel tree was a foot or so over the fence from the garden of the basement where we used to live. That is to say before we moved into the basement next door - yes, the very one with the garden housing the laurel tree in the piece on the wall. But wait for it, there is even more. Within a few days of moving in - almost a year ago to the day as it happens - the tree was blown over in a forceful gale and filled the entire garden like a beached whale before being chopped into pieces and taken away.
*Woody Allen (born Allen Stewart Königsberg on December 1, 1935)

An agent of change

I'm hoping the man who could be my agent is reading this. He's very good. We've not actually met in person but we do know someone in common, and he's been kind enough to email. I’m hoping the wit or conceptualism of seeing himself in the title and first sentence might help. (This will be the first page.) What I'm really sending is a copy of the first twelve chapters of my novel. It's strange: I’ve never allowed myself the luxury of imagining I deserve an agent before, which is also strange, because I care about writing, and like to think I'm onto something with the novel. Before I get carried away, I must remember I'm not the only person in this blog. I am, after all, The Artist’s Husband. She's busy, by the way. In between writing and discussions with experts on the war-zone, I've been answering questions for her about the figures in the conceptual intricacy of branches, trunks, and leaves on the wall. She'll ask, for example, if one should be darker. She'll know the answer – she's that good – but I can understand the inherent respect in having a final review. Of course all this finalisation stuff is because we are off to the foothills tomorrow. By the time you're reading this, insh'allah, we'll be by a fast-flowing stream or meandering path, peering into the distance at sheep hugging the sides of mountains. Or we'll be crouched on the carpet, enjoying a kind of ankle-height reunion with the little people. The air: I love the air there. The stature of the landscape, the humility of the people. I've mentioned this before but the little people are with their maternal grandparents there in the foothills right now. They've been there four full days. From tomorrow, we'll be there too. The artist will be arting and I'll be hoping the man who could be my agent is not feeling too bombarded.