Art on a sleeve

Lying in bed together with the foxes, maybe even rats, rustling ungovernably through the last of the weeds on the other side of the window, the artist has a panic attack about her work. Anguish rises from the propped-up pillow like a burning cactus and all reason in the room is suddenly smoked out. The artist’s lot, I am thinking, can be an unhappy one, and being an artist is not just about getting a show, though this counts high enough on my list to hang a regime of hope upon it. No, it’s about maintaining the right environment to work in, too, and I don't know how good I am at that. The children in the other room meanwhile snore on like little seraphs in their bunk beds, their growing-pain drawings blue-tacked joyously to the wall. As I remember it now, the boy actually falls out of the bottom bunk, rendering the artist momentarily obsolete as she rushes out of bed and sweeps him up like a mother. (Not that the idea of an artist and mother is an incompatible one in this household: not with this one's art.) Moments later, the whole flat is creaking, as if sharing in the family’s general aches and pains. This entry wouldn't be complete without mention also of the additional financial pressures tapping at the window like a character out of a zipped up Dickens novel. Don't get me wrong: we are trying as nobly as possible to find a creative way out and proudly and foolishly are nailing our futures – and for all I know our children’s futures too - to a creative mast, yes, in a world full of shark-like submarines. Later in the long night, I hear sirens speed past and think sleeplessly of the word liberation. I turn quietly to the artist. She is asleep now and her anguish settled. Tiny snores from the next room are my only accompaniment as I brush her cheeks and place one palm briefly on her shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. As she sleeps on, I can just about make out a smile. Don’t stop, I'm thinking. Dream on, dear artist. Please don’t stop. I find myself beside you.