Number Eleven

I rise from the table and walk to the bookshelf to the left of the fireplace, as the children fall asleep in the other room. I have to look hard for it at first but there on the third shelf, between a friend's dizzyingly analytical book on the law and structure of the international banking system, and a propagandist book on Croatia I picked up there during the war, is the illustrated literary journal received several years ago from across the ocean. On the cover of this particular copy an F/A-18 Hornet appears through a burst of cloud caused by the plane's breaking of the sound barrier. Inside, however, on the very first page, before the contributors' notes, is part of what I am looking for. It is one of several pieces done by the artist, in this first instance the clenched fist of our daughter, then a baby of about three months old. It was part of a large collection of single images done by the artist shortly after giving birth for the very first time. The original is flesh-coloured and life-like; this is in black and white. It is thumb-sized on the page, with a large white background. The original drawing of the fist was about one square foot. The children are now asleep and the artist returns to the living room. It has been a long day and both children were in school performances. I pick up the journal again and flick through the pages in search of another image. There they are. They are part of a series in the journal given the title of our daughter's name. The first image is of her unoccupied white sleep-suit. The second, again with its own page, is the smallest of several Russian dolls, given as it happens to our daughter by the man responsible for curating the various art projects in the journal. The third image is that fist again. The fourth image is a small toy with a neck like a giraffe. The final image is of the artist's nipple. I am sure I have mentioned this image before. A bead of her milk is to the left. I close the book again and remember the pleasure in seeing the artist doing these images for the first time. They said to me, I know I am a mother but I am still an artist.

Think global, act local

Our four faces were blank and emotionless as we stared out at the clusters of people in the capital rushing on foot along the pavements by the side of the road, as we were driven like innocents from the railway station back to our flat after several days of bliss in the pure and mountainous countryside, which is home to the artist's parents. Staring out from the taxi, it seemed insane to us at first that people should really be living so on top of each other, but then we sort of looked at each other and remembered, hey, we lived here too. In fact our children started singing and I took various pictures of this. In each of the images, examined later, they did not look like that first sentence at all. I could have begun: 'Our four faces were expressive and emotional as we stared out ...' Isn't it funny how a description based on one moment can be so invalidated the next? Trust me, though, when I say they were not exactly unhappy to see their flat again, even though the rain wept on the leaves and the grey sky was not how we had left it. We stumbled in and abandoned our bags. The artist made no mention of her recently commenced piece on the wall, but I know she will already have sized it up. (I think her main priority has been to get the children resettled.) I have meanwhile been reading up on things. I have been examining what they call in war the struggle for people's minds. I have been looking at what is said about propaganda as a force for peace. I have been comparing how much terrorists 'spend' on video publicity, effectively, versus how much a major power spends. And I have been concluding in my small and powerless way that effectiveness is more important than performance. The big picture. I must always aspire towards the big picture. On the train back, staring out at the last of the mountains, I was thinking globally. For now, while the children try to get to sleep, I am acting locally. Think global, act local.