I’m a lame drinker. I hate the feeling of being drunk and loath hangovers. Plus, I am prone to migraines, so I can’t over do it. Still, offer me a drink in the middle of the day, and I’ll likely say yes. In my opinion, there are few greater pleasures in life than drinking during the day. When that day is on holiday, the pleasure is even greater. By far the best holiday drink is on the plane. It is a libation of sorts, separating the mundane from the marvellous. Our trip to London finally rolled around today, and like all good holiday goers, we began by drinking on the plane.
Once in London, we hightailed it to the exhibition venue at Trinity Warf to drop off the painting I am showing. I got to meet our wonderful course leader, Jonathan, in the flesh for the first time, and also had a tour of the space, which is amazing.
My fella and I then took a stroll to Canary Warf and found a beautiful restaurant on the water called The Hawksmoor. We went to the lower part of the restaurant, called The Lowback, which was a bit more casual, due to our somewhat scruffy, country-bumpkin attire.
The food was great and included the best chips I have ever eaten, as well as these salted caramel things that seemed a bit piddly sitting on the plate, but were ridiculously delicious.
It was dark and raining on our way back to the hotel, but the combination of the rain and lights from the surrounding buildings looked beautiful, and reminded me of why I love cities.
Equally beautiful is the view from our hotel, which includes a glimpse of the Thames. I’m completely in love with the river after reading Peter Ackroyd’s book about it. It has a long and fascinating history, and is full of wonder and mystery. I look forward to exploring it in person over the next few days.
For me, painting is an obsessive drive that consumes my every waking hour. If I’m not doing it, I’m thinking about it. It is no exaggeration to say my life revolves around my painting practice, the discipline of which is anchored down deep. Not only does my fella support my love of painting, he actively facilitates and protects it. Were it not for him, I’d be a lonely cat-lady with no cat, pushing my trolley around town with paint in my hair (I’m not kidding, that’s how he found me). Instead, I’m painting all day in a beautiful studio next to the sea, doing my MFA, and generally living a life I could previously only dream of. True, I still have paint in my hair, and don’t have a cat, but I am loved and warm and completely indulged, and am no longer in need of a trolley. Its a wonderful life, and I am thankful everyday that I get to live it.
Each week, I have a break from the studio (from Friday evening till Saturday evening), so Geoff and I can spend some quality time together. Geoff refers to this period as Bexapalooza, Bex-in-the-park, or simply Bexfest. That’s because we typically end up doing Bex-related activities, like visiting graves, wells, or my parents. By way of a counter-balance, every now and then we have Geoff Day – i.e. 24 hours of Geoff-related activities. When I say “every now and then“, I mean once every two years. That’s until last Friday when we had Geoff Day on Fire (after already having a standard Geoff Day in December). As we were celebrating his birthday as well, I wanted to make this Geoff Day extra special (hence the Fire), so I booked a night in a swanky hotel and organised some activities I knew he would like.
First on the list was a Trike Tour around the Isle of Man. Our particular tour was called “The Road Less Travelled”, which took us on the stunningly beautiful roads in the centre of the Island, while our tour-guide (aka our friend Simon) regaled us with tales of the grizzly murders and goings-on in the isolated cottages and farms along the way – like the son who ran-through his father with a pitchfork, over a quarrel about a cow. It was a fabulous tour, and we both thoroughly enjoyed it.
Next, we went boozing. I took my book in case the conversation got slow, and Geoff displayed his uncanny ability of making a raspberry mojito look manly.
Then it was back to the hotel for some wine and birthday presents, one of which was a fancy massage gun, which obviously needed testing, so I graciously obliged…after all, it was Geoff Day on Fire!
We then had a delicious dinner at the hotel’s Asian-fusion restaurant, after which we retired to our room. I’d like to say a great time was had by all, but I was struck-down with a migraine and kept Geoff awake all night with my fidgeting and moaning (of the “holy smokes my head is sore” variety). Added to which, the bathroom stank of raw sewage, due to the old-as drains that had likely not been changed since the Victorians were knocking about.
Geoff Day on Fire having already devolved into Bexfest, Geoff took us the long way home the next day, so we could stop off at a cemetery, and look for a well (both of which were involved in a story I am researching for a post-Interim Show painting). We then popped in and saw my folks for good measure. To show my appreciation, I let Geoff do something he’s been wanting to do since we met. That is, take me on his motorbike. He got a little choked up when I agreed to do it, as he’s never had a girl on the back of his bike before, only Phil and Belal. To be honest, I’m not a fan of motorbikes, on a account of all the dying, but I trust Geoff, and knew he’d ride sensibly. Still, I was terrified.
What Geoff thought we’d look like.What we actually looked like.
I’m pleased to say, I survived the ride, and Geoff survived another Geoff Day, despite the no sleep, residual smell of sewage that was burned into his nostrils, not to mention the grave-visiting, well-searching, in-law-seeing Bexapaloozing! I bet he can’t wait for the next one!
For Winterval (our so named Hanukkah/Christmas/Solstice holiday mishmash) this year, I asked my fella for a 3 months subscription to Weight Watchers, which he kindly offered to extend to 6 months after witnessing (wide-eyed) my solo “box of chocolates, several magnums, entire Baileys Yule Log weekend extravaganza”.
To be honest, I don’t really mind being chubby. I spend most of my time alone in the studio, seeing no one but Fonzi and my fella (neither of whom are in a position to throw stones), and I don’t own a full-length mirror. What I do mind is not being able to do up my coat and being a sugar-fiend – of which I am of the highest order.
I am currently reading James Walvin’s excellent book “Sugar”, about the history of sugar and it’s cultural, economic, and physical impact on humanity. It’s a cracking read (or listen, if like me you’re an Audible user), and is one of a collection of books I gathered a while ago that will form the research component of a painting I’ve had milling around in the back of my mind for some time now, and for which I recently had a bit of a creative breakthrough with regards to its conceptualisation. It will be a few years before the painting is realised, but I couldn’t resist, while on holiday, exploring the subject further to see if I am on the right track (which I am pleased to say, I think I am), and to keep the milling juices flowing around the idea.
Term two starts tomorrow, so the above idea will have to mill on its own, as I have to refocus my creative energy on my research project about water. I did a few more of the green paintings during the holidays, but, I kind-a lost the thread (god knows why I started putting cats in them, let alone donkeys) and felt like abandoning the idea altogether. However, thanks to a recent meeting with a creative-strategist (aka a pub visit with my fella), I have gained clarity as to how I will proceed. Basically, instead of trying to knock-out completed paintings (a strategy that typically results in a repetitive creative loop in which the paintings tend to get worse not better), I am going to break the paintings down into their constituent parts, and work on developing those parts separately. Beginning with figuration, which will be my primary focus in term two (as well as finishing the Ann painting).
In the meantime, here are a few of the green paintings I did during the holidays.
Like most people, I have vivid memories of momentous historical events, such as Princess Diana’s death, 9:11, and the time Poi e made #1 on the New Zealand music charts. It was 1984, and we were staying at Nana’s house in Tokoroa. It must have been a Saturday because Ready to Roll was on, and we were due to watch Poi e, by Patea Maori Club, for the first time. Tragically, moments prior, I was banished to Nana’s bedroom for some long-forgotten misdemeanour (likely sibling battery). As the now familiar music began play, I gingerly pushed the bedroom door open, allowing me a direct view of the television. Unfortunately, I was also in mum’s direct line of sight. Feeling sure I was about to be told-off and re-banished, I was astounded when mum pretended not to see me, and instead let me watch the song in its entirety. It was a momentous event for me, not because of Poi e – as awesome as it is (I still well-up when I hear it) – but because it was the first time I experienced mercy. Mercy (aka undeserved kindness) is rare in this world, most likely due to the human penchant for giving other people their just desserts. As such, when you’re on the receiving end of it, it tends to stick in your memory.
I was reminded of my mum’s mercy the other day. I had decided to take up running…again, and there I was, running (read shuffling) around the Point of Ayre, when Poi e popped up on my playlist. The obligatory tears that fell down my cheeks, invigorated my strides, and before I knew it, I had been running for almost an hour. Naturally, I paid for my vigour in the days that followed, which caused my fella, when in my vicinity, to hum the tune to Raw Hide and ask as to the whereabouts of my horse.
I had already been thinking a lot about mercy, as it is the crux of the Ann painting. When I consider the trajectory of what happened to her – grinding poverty (she lived in the Manx equivalent of a slum), getting caught stealing 37 yards of lace (technically, she was caught trying to sell it, likely to feed herself), entrapment (don’t even get me started on the callous woman who deliberately entrapped and betrayed her), prison (in a literal medieval castle that a contemporary report deemed the worst prison in Europe), followed by her grizzly death in a shipwreck, the details of which scandalised the world and nearly bought a premature end to Britain’s penal-transportation system (but didn’t, because it was too convenient/lucrative) – I can’t help thinking that her fate could have been altered if just one of the people involved had shown her mercy.
I think its worth looking out for those opportunities when we ourselves can show mercy. Those times when we know someone has done something wrong, but instead of calling them to account, and seeing to it that they suffer the humiliation and attendant consequences of their wrong doing, we look the other way, sure in the knowledge they know we know. Showing mercy confers dignity, which, in turn, can have a transformative effect, as dignity is more rehabilitative than humiliation.
bexODESSA 