Junctions

Some time ago during a similar festive season when I was still a boy living in a place by the sea with my grandmother, I felt this unseasonal urge to swim. Anyway, it was freezing outside and I had to push hard to close the door before walking with gutsy gusto down the grey steps and across the small road onto the sea-front. Looking back I could see the lights of a tree in one of the windows. The rest of the building looked dark and empty. I peered outwards and headed towards the beach. Gusts of wind ripped across the thick tufts of grass. Trails of eye-splitting sand tore up from the beach. Bracing myself, I climbed down the steps and landed with a thud on the ice-hard sand. I was freezing too and jumped up and down a few times like a footballer about to be introduced, before taking off my clothes - except for my swimming trunks - and then suddenly racing towards the sea. Why was I doing this? Without stopping to consider the full madness of my actions, I plunged head first into a large and breaking wave and felt a kind of deadening euphoria as all of my nerves froze at the same time and my skin quickly tried to recover from the sudden leap of faith and slap of ice cold salty water. I kept swimming, turning into an iceberg being the only other option. I still couldn't believe I was in the water. Peering up at the building again where my grandmother lived with my aunt, I remember thinking this was my home. Presently, however, I am all shook up. What I mean is, this would have been my blog were it not for the road outside the flat having suddenly become deafened with the sound of sirens. Like the boy earlier in the blog, stumbling out of the building, I went to see what was happening. I am afraid it soon became clear. A police van was wrapped around a post. Another vehicle was smashed too. Grim-faced firemen with cutters were already moving in. One man by the side of the road, a neighbour, said he had heard some children wailing earlier. The police meanwhile surrounded the van and tried to keep everyone away. Feeling helpless, I nonetheless checked there was nothing I could do, made some kind of photographic record, and left. My daughter stirred when I returned. She asked what I had seen. I didn't really tell her, but now, an hour later, I am thinking about the wailing the neighbour heard. Sometimes, I guess, when you look back from the water, life can be gone.

We Shall Overcome

We have arranged and confirmed the artist's preliminary meeting next week with the old friend who will orchestrate the follow-up encounter with the gallerist with the new white space. It is something to jolt the undoubted labour into a different kind of interaction. And this is good. The artist in the meantime stepped out into the sudden cold this morning and worked for hours in a blustering wind on the mural she is doing as a gift and significant gesture to the school our two children attend. She has been meticulous, practical, seeking advice on paints. Today as a day has turned up its collar. It has been the sort of day to wear only what a polar ice-cap can inform. The heavens have been moody, too, with various warrior seagulls gliding sideways hundreds of feet up in the air and deliberately miles from the sea. Talking of stature, I saw the mural yesterday. It is quite some piece. I think I was taken aback by the scale when I first set eyes upon it. To paraphrase J.D. Salinger again, it raises high the roof-beam, carpenter. In fact, the entire tone of the building's otherwise tawdry architecture is somehow lifted. As I write, the artist is now working on the miniatures, an action matched by our eight-year-old, who is doing an image, also small in scale, of something already done by the artist. Like mother, like daughter. Like art, like art. Our five-year-old is on the floor, checking the various angles he can look at his detailed plastic boar-drawn chariot from. He is like a small film director, a tiny Cecil B. DeMille, doing a kind of surreal bible scene. Come to think of it, what we could enjoy now are one or two sumptuous miracles. Keep the faith.