The Artist, The Work and The Bunk-bed

It has been a working weekend for the artist. The fruits of her labour shine from the wall. The artist for a large part of the afternoon even wore a thick black mark across one cheek. It looked sufficiently warrior-like for one so determined to win the battle. Likewise, the artist's son. His painted space rocket - blues and pinks - won the sculptural stakes all right. The sculptor himself has been drawing and playing computer games since, even laying his head on the floor while looking up at the plastic pirate ship he so enjoys sailing through the straits of his imagination. The artist's daughter meanwhile came swimming with me. She was so excited by the prospect she affected the breaststroke across the park. (She likes to spend most of her time in the deep end these days and I marvel at her determination.) In order to get to the pool, we had to pass the station we used when I lived with the artist in a nearby flat. Even then she was a figure of industry, working through flurries of success and visual rechargings. She was working by day at her studio and by night as a secretary. There are already interesting tangents in the artist's career. This evening a well known singer recently recovered from breast cancer was on TV. The artist's daughter didn't know that her mother had done a portrait of her. 'You never told me,' she complained to the artist. I took the large pink book bearing an image of the artist's portrait from the shelf. 'Why didn't you tell me?' repeated the daughter. I will tell you. The artist never blows her own trumpet. She finds the idea vulgar. She will never waste energy telling the world what she has done in the past when she believes she still has so much to do in the future. (I will tell the world.) She will not rest on her laurels. Presently, she is reading a story to the children. Let me stop a moment to listen to what she is reading. It sounds like Russian at first. (I've just been watching a documentary with a lot of Russian in it with subtitles. Is that why?) Anyway, I have to go through in the end. They are all on the top bunk. (Remarkably, not our bed this time.) She is reading them C.S. Lewis. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. I leave them listening to how the ancient, mysterious prophecy is fulfilled and the children help Aslan save Narnia from the evil White Witch. Then I return to my laptop and write this all down.