Her Life In A Column

I have a copy of a weekly 950-word column in front of me written by a high-profile contemporary female artist who knows the artist quite well. In fact she replied to the artist's request a year or so ago to meet up, but failed to follow through in the end, though perhaps through no fault of her own. Anyway, as well as soaking up some rays on the other side of the world, the person is now a millionaire. And some. I cut to the chase on this only because she is part of that new breed of artists whose claim to fame is always the great money they are making and never the great art. This is not necessarily their fault and may well grate them as much as it does us. But you imagine they will have a relatively stress-free time reading their bills. Besides, millionaire self-pity next to pages of bombed children does not an icon make. According to the female columnist-artist, I was the first person to write about her in a national newspaper. In her column today she talks chiefly about alcohol, sweat, blood and benders. Her mugshot looks down at you with a kind of unwitting pomposity, especially when you know she's essentially a kind person but locked inside a piece of rolling rolling-stock. Confessionalisms can be quite arresting. To some degree I suppose I am doing one here. But when someone is unhappy and the more unhappy they are the more successful they become, you cannot help but see where the graph is going and fear for the worst. It must also be difficult for the artist of this blog to be working hard without complaint, then read the complaints of an artist in the spotlight. At least the blogger's wife will have the satisfaction of having found a kind of contentment through her children when she exhibits. And will not in her work have been overexposed in public during depths of despair.