I have no idea if the French Consulate will approve my long-stay visa, apart from an inkling that the rendezvous was positive. In a reckless sort of way, I’ve been preparing to leave anyway. At least for three months. If my application pleases the administration I’m off for a year, with the option to renew. Holy shit! there’s a mountain of ends to tie off.
Being a visual artist is heart-poundingly beautiful. I spend my days soaking up images then pouring my passion onto canvas, computers and sketchbooks. I get to run around in the forest, chase clouds down the coast and occasionally throw my clothes to the wind. But there are some drawbacks. Stuff. The walls are disappearing behind mountains of artwork. Fortunately my housemates are tolerant.
I was dreaming up possibilities for art shows when there was a loud knock at the door. I assumed it was another parcel for New Housemate but the floppy plastic envelope looked oddly familiar. It was only a week since my interview in Sydney and I expected to wait two months. Was this a quick refusal or the long-awaited ticket to Europe? I opened it up… and I haven’t stopped smiling!
PS I really do need to move my paintings. Stay tuned.
There’s a summer happening here, in realtime. Greece can wait. The UV is burning and the capital is empty. Everyone has fled the work ethic and dived into coastal holiday mode. I’ve had my share of joyous outpourings and returned to pluck at my canvas. Ah the music is sweet! But first I dropped into a moment of intense solitude, meeting New Year’s Eve with a sober stare and a promise of hanging out another time. I needed to think. Then I dropped into depression. I needed to process. On the third day I rose from these dreamless depths with curiosity. The world still existed post Donald Trump. It was bright and somewhat magical. Politics excepted.
The fork twisted. It was clearly bored with itself and needed to create a bit of drama. The wall stared the other way. It was certain that no going back would set things straight.
I have an inappropriate crush on you, she wrote. 9 times. It was a glitch, thanks to the vagaries of the unsmart phone.
He reminded her and added that he read it. 9 times. Thinking that there may have been something else hidden in the text.
Exposed. They laughed.
After the fifth glass of wine she left her bike propped against the tree. Unlocked. They took a cab to a bar and opened the door on all things unsaid. It didn’t matter any more.
At 3am she walked home. Her breath damp. Like the grass in the deserted park. He stayed. Someone had to talk to the whiskey.
She whispered sweet nothings into her pillow then rolled over into a dreamless sleep.
Yes, the bones are,
Beneath the flesh.
Through the canopy,
Casting shadows into,
Yes, the ribs are,
Above the chasm,
Where the heart once wept.
Yes, the bones are,
The keys turning,
# First etching
# Playing with possibilities – overprinting, gouache, compressed charcoal.
Who is the muse? Sometimes I draw the model. Sometimes I am the model. Sometimes I draw the people drawing the model. Could I draw the people drawing me as I model? Life is Art and Art is life.
I am totally, unconditionally,
In the present moment.
With women bathing,
Wind blowing, sweet
Caresses on my naked
On the brink.