Once An Artist

Part of the process in this rare separation of the artist from her art is the accompanying withdrawal on the part of the artist into a kind of silence and reflection and distance. I suppose I am secure within the relationship as I don't take it personally when along with the art I'm in some ways left behind. The broad canvas which is the atmosphere of this valley ensures the big picture, anyway. Furthermore, the rushing water, soft mist, oxygen of trees, spaces us out, obviously in more ways than one. Nature points a green finger and tells us to slow down. The water says, 'Let me do the rushing.' You can't even call it a return to full-time mothering on the part of the artist, as that's something which has never been compromised. No, it is the sleep of the just. At one stage, I offer to make tea and the artist's eyes light up at the prospect of having a warm cup brought to a warm bed, and when she nods off with it a few minutes later reading a novel about jealousy and betrayal, the cup slips from her hand and soaks all the bed sheets. She keeps apologising - for being tired, for this, for that - but has no need to. But I do know what's coming next. Our daughter knows too. And it does. As sure as this blog reaches its end. She wants to get some images upstream.

Live with intention. Walk to the edge.

It is night and I have just walked up a large hill. The sky was a kind of muddy purple and the trees lining the road gave off a whiff of summer. I was with a friend and we were admiring both the buildings and the people in them. A couple we passed in one house were sitting on their large sofa as if gleefully awaiting anyone who passed. They each had I think a glass in their hand. Furthermore he was bare chested and she was wearing what looked at a glance like a fluorescent pink tutu, though again we were walking pretty fast, even if the windows were studiously uncurtained and tailored for people like us. I suppose they were making an exhibition of themselves. Anyway, we passed a larger building which once had been a gallery and I remembered being there with the artist one Saturday or Sunday before we had children. Now it stood like an effigy of its former self, closed but lit. We continued and the scent in the air was evocative of so many things. Rome. Lahore. Sekondi-Takoradi. Savannah. I think it was the sense of people already in their beds which encouraged this voyeuristic respect, and I remember thinking as we crossed the road that I should look upon this walk later as reportable. As we reached a fork in the road I bade goodbye to my friend and we wished our families well and I continued my way up to the artist. On the last stretch I walked down a long and half-lit path for pedestrians only and saw at the far end a brief burst of flame which flickered and eventually disappeared. As I walked on I began to realise what it was and passed the person halfway. The person in question had obviously been lighting a huge joint as I was now walking straight through a thick cloud of smoke and I think I was still coughing when I arrived home and greeted the artist. She, bless, had just finished working.