I’m back from my short hiatus. Yes, after a few triumphant weeks my blog was once again derailed - both by disaster and by life (this is getting very Kipling now), when I found myself brought low by a pain that I have never faced before - a giant of an affliction that contorted my very form, and made me question my god. The name of this carbuncle of medicine, this demon of biology, this torment incarnate… Blister.
I should point out that this was not a simple rubbing on the sole of the foot, this was a full on infected inflation that seemed determined to convert my toe into the next Hindenburg; and thusly, when it came time to burst the damn thing, a similar scene of carnage ensued: fluids and pus pouring forth - those in the room searching forlornly and vainly for some vessel for escape. Recuperating from such trauma has seen me sofa bound, pumped full of antibiotics and pain-killers, almost zen-like in inactivity. Yet being me I found that this posture of idyl only served to make me aware of my failings - as if not being able to do something is not enough of an excuse. A feeling only accentuated by the machinations of the washing machine - which decided to break to spite me. And so, with one leg elevated I found myself crawling through the bowels of the plumbing to establish the problem, braving flood and instruction manuals, and predictably finding that it was out of my power to control. Defeated again I hobbled back to the sofa, whilst Caroline rang for a repair man, and I sulk…(ahem), reflected.
I have found myself caught up on a tide of doubt recently - one of those times in life when mistakes and errors follow each other too quickly for us to put them down as ‘one of those things’, which drives us to question ability, luck, fate and worth. These are the tides that start you talking to albatrosses, and make you want to drink the sea-water. Inevitably these moments come when you wrap yourself within a bubble, realising too late that the transparent film around you has become clingfilm, and that you can't seem to get out - to fight your way out of it.
But I am lucky - though prone to fuck-up and a tendency to embrace blame too readily, I have found ways to find myself - metaphorical bread crumbs that prevent the corners from sealing (seriously this post is becoming the Terminator X of mixed-metaphor), so that I can reflect on the wider significance - or more importantly insignificance of each moment.
So here we find me standing at my first market stall, taking my work to the people; no longer hiding away and hoping people will find me. Debating the best way to position my paintings, to engage those who look in conversation, to talk about what I do without feeling self-conscious, or worse embarrassed… oh, and smiling (it’s quite painful if you’re not used to it). It is the beginning of a new step, and it is a joy. People walk past - people stop and look, some even talk, but there is a response, and no one threw anything - which I always see as a plus. Again mistakes were made, but solutions were found, and most importantly I went through with it… and I’m going back… and it’s given me ideas to paint… and I want to paint… and I have.
I want to thank people who supported me over the stall - it is a small step, but one I didn’t find easy in the run up, so thanks to those who were there, who visited, who gave a moral thumbs up; and be assured I will be back - (fill in obligatory Terminator reference here). Thanks.