A Work In Progress

The artist sits down opposite. She positions herself to one side on one of five wooden chairs and places a pile of papers on her lap. Shifting again, she clears a purposeful space on the table, sniffing slightly, and flattens a sheet of paper. She now opens a large Cadbury's Milk Chocolate Fingers tin containing what must amount to several handfuls of Derwent Graphic pencils. I am looking at one closely now. It says HB. Just then, our son comes running in. He is wearing his pyjamas and really should be asleep. He wants a drawing book. He wants to draw something. Instead of being reprimanded, he gets what he wants and races back to the bottom bunk to do a drawing while his big sister on the top bunk reads her Horrid Henry book. The artist now gets down to work in earnest. She is beginning a new miniature. At this point, our daughter declares in a loud but musical voice from the bedroom that she is in fact ready now to go to sleep, and the artist, still sniffling, rises from the table and walks to the bedroom, leaving the HB pencil on the table, pointing randomly north-west, and the image in a fledgling, unspent state. 'Am I a nutter doing these pieces?' she says, returning. 'Yes,' she replies, to herself. A strange radio programme is playing American music with a slow country feel and steel guitar. I am asked about now how many tiny figures might work best on the right hand side of the image. This will happen sometimes but what I say has no bearing on any final decision. (I am happy to report.) No, the artist, like all good artists, always does what she wants to do and I would expect nothing less. I look at her now. The pencil is very sharp. Her fingers are clean, too. Her wedding ring and engagement ring, modestly purchased as they were, shine prominently, like marriage, from her wedding finger. I have no ring on my hand but some paper by it, like the artist. On one page I am told of lichens and mosses. 'Soak overnight,' it reads. 'Add to stews.' The artist meanwhile is on her feet again, pouring a glass of milk for our son, in response to a spoken request I didn't even hear. Now she has to get some water for our daughter. The image, like an unfinished miracle now, still awaits its creator, who sits down in the end with a sigh, wiping her tap-wet hands on the sides of her jeans, before resuming work again. I can feel the sharpness of the lead this time, scratching the paper. Her breathing increases, too. She is getting into this. With any luck, the children will remain asleep now. (Oh-oh. Our son comes back, head bowed, but is taken back to bed.) 'What is this?' says the artist: it is George Formby on the radio. (What's he doing in this blog?) A light flickers from the children's bedroom. The artist is off again. They are not asleep. 'Night night,' I say, making my point. Silence.