28th June
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_letter_day
Already you’re divided. Some of you are thinking what the hell’s she on about. Some (the more learned ) are smug in your knowledge of why it’s called a red letter day. The curious will go to wiki and find out.
I am wondering which letter I’d paint red.
Probably ‘S’ for surreal
I remember the Scarlet Letter – BBC series – gal with fabulous eyes.
I’m in the front garden at mum’s old house.
It’s mum’s birthday. Well it WAS mum’s birthday. If she was still here it would be her birthday. It’s the first birthday she had when she wasn’t here. I think you see what I’m struggling to say.
As if that wasn’t surreal enough, I spoke to my dad today for the first time in about thirty five years. The words just flowed as natural as if we did it every day of our lives. Only we haven’t. I’m amazed that I could. That the sounds formed themselves and came out of my mouth without curling and twisting and drying and turning into barbed wired and fluorescent , stinking, vomit.
All the nights I’ve lain awake and practised what I’d say. How I’d say it. Where we’d be. And it wasn’t like that at all. And he didn’t sound like I remembered.
Well – he wouldn’t would he. He’s 75 now. His voice is thin and whispery and raspy and rough from a lifetime of tobacco and lies. His teeth are mostly missing and his brow is shiny from the skull that strains to split the skin beneath. His hard earned tan has mottled his skin and he looks like his mother. Dark beady eyes that shift and glint. Pliable lips capable of anything.
He climbed off a bike that he wouldn’t have been seen dead on at forty. Age mellows our fashion sense it seems – even in bicycles. Before I know what I have done I have smiled and said hi and he has smiled back.
He comes into what is now my brother’s garden and walks up the path towards me.
It’s too late now. It’s too late to look away and too late to disappear round the side of the house. It’s too sunny to expect him to say what I rehearsed him to say.
He doesn’t say anything resembling sorry.
He looks at the body parts on the lawn at my feet.
The marigolds are nodding orange and yellow heads under the too blue sky and I hear myself telling him about photographing a friend’s sculpture – as if I owe him an explanation about anything in my life.
“Somebody’s been busy.”
I don’t know if he heard what I said about the sculpture.
He leans very close to me and peers at the Canon slung around my neck – as if he is my father and is allowed to come that close.
I don’t back away.
I’m grown up now I don’t have to back away.
“Same as mine,” he smiles and walks towards my brother’s front door.
“Well, it’s not what you’ve got, it’s what you do with it,” I say to his back.
My first retort to him as adult to adult. It’s not scary. I don’t have to swallow my words. I don’t have to let them scurry about in my belly like hot coals.
He half turns back to me with his hand on the door knob.
“You’re right,” he tells me then goes into my brother’s house.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I stand on the lawn where just less than a year ago my mum lay dying with a fatal heart attack and I look at the nodding marigolds she planted and I am guilt ridden and sorry but I am not afraid and I am not trembling.
A promontary on the East Durham coast, just south of Durham. It overlooks the Blast Beach (so named for the Blast furnaces that toiled there before the colliery kings arrived to add their own special brand of pollution - along with the chemical companies and the glass works - but I digress.)
In actuality this is a piece of texture found just around the corner from the Blast, at the docks. But for me, it's the magnesian limestone cliff and eroding shelf of waste familar to those who regularly approach Noses Point from the south.
It will be a painting. Planning to try crinkled aluminium foil and staining it with thin layers of acrylic.
Watch this space.
There is a queue of ideas.
They percolate then grow stale.
Writing them down here may prod me into action
What is it with me and time? A few missed hours turns into a few missed weekends and before I know it - look - it's February since my last posting.
Sigh.
Life is fleeting isn't it?
I visited an artist friend last week. He's 62 and looks haunted. Paints like a demon on shift work. Always talks about how much time he has wasted not painting.
I know why the obsession.
Why does inertia seem to be my reaction? Why do I work best under pressure? Why can't I just spread my work out evenly?
It's been a shit year at work. Having half an Art timetable and half an English one has doubled my work/marking/prep load.
This week it all comes to a head - tutor reports to write and exam work to mount and exhibit and deadline for my own exhibitions and proposals to write. Sheesh. So what do I do - I come here and engage in MORE displacement activity.
Seery, you're priceless.
(Shakes her head)
Saturday again today - seems to be the only day when I have breathing space to blog. And paint. Pollution 2 is going well. It's title will be - Woman Dreaming. Suggested by the marks I made and their reminding me of traditional indiginous Australian art - yet with a contemporary twist on the colours. The morning went well.
Then I drove to the gallery for my stint at invigilating. On the way a car pulled out of a junction and drove into the side of mine.
Sigh.
I'm fine - just a bit stiff.
But I do feel angry and frustrated.
The other driver is insisting I was at fault.
I phoned the police. They tell me that so long as no one was hurt - the insurance people will sort it out.
You know when you were a kid and you're punished for something you didn't do?
Feels just like that.
On the plus side - the painting is going well.
Here's a link to my original pic for enquiring minds.
http://www.photosig.com/go/photos/view?id=2234466&forward=user
Why doesn't term time fly like fun time? Stupid question - we all know the answer.
Easing closer.
First coat of orange - damned stuff is almost transparent - so looks like lots of work ahead. I kinda - love it and hate it at the moment.
Recent Comments
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Peter Oregon said:
With a mild acid. I think vinegar, in the strength sold for household use, may be too weak. Might check... read more
on Noses Point -
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Peter Oregon said:
Don't let this one go stale. There is too much wealth of juicy goodness here to let it slip behind... read more
on Noses Point -
Aubrey said:
And at the end, what looks like a little temple, standing admidst the gray, the gravel and the shards. Beauty... read more
on Ozymandias
on Red Letter Day