Eight Days

The impossibly famous artist has been in touch with the artist here, twice in the past few days, and now his assistant is in touch with her too, arranging a visit for him to see the artist's work. This has been ever since the artist wrote to him after he gave his email address. (And made my day by replying immediately.) This comes as some relief to all of us here, and for a variety of reasons too, including the fact I don't think the artist quite believed it when I said he would be in touch. I think she has been working so hard she has become creatively self-contained. She may have forgotten sometimes how to interact, and like many brilliant but retiring artists she can also mistake an art world that communes with itself, even celebrates, with a conspiracy against seriousness. Anyway, she now has eight days before he comes to see the work. This means eight in which to get her work in order. There are one or two things she must do with the two latest pieces, but she is almost there. I will be off to the war zone myself a few days later - I just received my new dates - so I hope it will be at least with some fresh hope for the artist that I take my deep breath and go under the metaphorical wire again. Since my sister died less than an hour after I landed a few weeks ago from my last trip, relations with the artist have been unusually strained. This has been partly my fault but it has also been as if the artist just wants the dam to break now and for her work to be allowed through, and it doesn't really matter too much about anything else apart from of course the children. This I suspect has contributed towards a kind of inner and outer rebelliousness on my part, which has not really been helpful of me, and has not been the case for almost a year now. At least when I saw the children's shining faces today before they were whisked off again, I saw something of a light within.

Parlour Scene in the House of the Working Artist

What do you like about this new piece?
The theatricality of the leaves and the trees and the roots.
You've been lost in this since we returned from the foothills.
I know. I know. It ... feels like the right thing to do.
(BOY: Mummy, can you tuck me in?)
Mm.
(Artist - distractedly - leaves living room, to tuck 5-year-old in bed. Artist returns, smiling to herself.)
What are you thinking about when you work?
That you'll shut up. No, don't say that. I'm joking.
(GIRL: What have you written, daddy?)
He'll put it in.
(GIRL: Don't.)
He will.
(BOY: Can I have my pillow?)
Yes.
(Artist leaves to get pillow. She returns. She is soon working again.)
What are you doing right now?
Concentrating, I'm concentrating on the colours. I'm not thinking about anything else. I've had a really good, concentrated, day. I'm just trying to get the hours in. I've done about twelve today.
(GIRL: He'll put that in as well.)
Hang on a minute.
(Artist steps back, angles head, and returns to piece.)
Do you like this new piece?
(GIRL: Pardon?)
Do you like the new piece?
(GIRL: Yes. Very much. Em, it's very detailed. Um ... )
(BOY: Can you get my blankie?)
I'll just get his blanket.
(GIRL: It's very ... a very kind of wild picture. Well, not wild. And in a way it looks ... it looks kind of, well, quite magical. And it's definitely mum's kind of picture. You can ask me more if you like - a beat - but don't write that in the blog.)
(Artist looks at Girl.)
You should just write about her. She'll give you a fresh look at the world every day.
What gives you such motivation?
I just want to make something beautiful ... really, really beautiful.
(BOY: Daddy, look. That's what makes my toy go really fast.)
I thought you were in bed.
(BOY: I'm having a quiet play.)
Do you like your mummy's new piece?
(BOY: Yeah. Has she finished?)
Why?
(BOY: I was just wondering.)
What do you like about it?
(BOY: Er, I don't know. Anyway, I see something quite funny. The white bits.)
(GIRL: What white bits?)
(BOY: Those.)
Listen, it's just nice to be doing a fresh image to spur me on. There's really an awful lot to do here. It's the sort of thing ... to really get me going.
Shall I say that?
(Artist is six inches from her work, staring at it and working on it intently.)
Em.
You're not really listening.
Pardon?
I could say anything and you'd just nod.
(Artist nods.)
(BOY: Night, night.)
(GIRL: Daddy's still writing.)
Did you say something?