The other week, as I dozed at my post, the most unlikely person voiced his view of me, 'she's a rebel' he said to anyone that would listen. Casting a long sideways look, I pretended not to take note. We all suffer from an inability to escape our fantasies and in this person's case the fantasy is all consuming.
However, onto brighter matters, during a miserable moment perusing the Cunard voyage itinerary, I spied that night four is 20's dress themed. Out came the stockings and suspenders, the necklaces, lace and feathers. I will look splendidly miserable at least.
It's about to pop like a puss filled spot, hiding in plain sight all along but no-one wanted to see it. If nothing else it fuelled months of work.
In the mean time I am packing the sketchbooks, better pack a few, they are my only company, goodness me I am going to be so lonely in my tin can on the ocean. However, I now have a window in my cabin. I think it's called an upgrade, which is very kind of Cunard.
“I allow everyone to think as they please, so long as I am left to think as I please; and in any case, those who are capable of freeing themselves from prejudice hardly need to be preached at” Denis Diderot.
It's been a hard few months what with one thing and another. When the going got really tough I turned to philosophy, as in the moments of violently competing views and the clashing of horns, I had nothing else to hold onto other than the fact that over the centuries others had encountered the same issue. It seems to me that freedom of expression and belief does not exist in the form we would like it to and often freedom of expression is only held by those in power. With deep careful thought, and the making of images, artists can speak loudly too and perhaps our method of communicating can get under the skin and have a deeper and more profound impact than thuggery or intimidation.
Art reminds me of that dreadful drug I was given in October, one tiny little pill changed my mood, energy levels, temperature and life, for months and months.
Another week goes by with my poor little brain engaged in intellectual activity that requires me to read. I have to read to supplement the writing on freedom of speech as it relates to Zizek, my new favourite philosopher and Jung and his ideas around the collective unconscious. All of this has to be done by next week so that I can board the big tin can, floating precariously on that deep ocean, to draw. I am going to be so lonely, I am dreading it.
I stomped off to collect my rejected Jerwood drawings today. As I wrapped them up I heard a voice from behind, "hello!" I turned and there he was, X from years ago and from a month ago. He had ignored my emails twice, my response was "why don't you and the Jerwood ***** off?" Undeterred he asked whether we could have a coffee, certainties are all important at times like these, and with another "**** off" I stomped off.
I did it. I booked. I considered taking someone else then I realised it would stop me working, after all, why have company and fun when one can be lonely and a workaholic. So I have consigned myself to ELEVEN lonely days travelling in a big metal box, floating on a vast, and what seems to me to be, a dangerously deep ocean, like a fool, alone. Southampton to New York and back again. It will take me a couple of weeks to get used to the idea and another week to plan how on earth I am going to take all my drawing equipment with me, then I will be ready. In the meantime here is a pic.
Of course, I am a sociable soul and there is nothing that lifts the spirits more than a sailor and my friends have told me that there are lots of them running around on that particular ship, and if I don't find a sailor to draw there are always the Bridge players that will be holed up in a little dark room together. No, I shall have a marvellous time, me and my sketch book.
“The canary bird in the coal mine theory of the arts: artists should be treasured as alarm systems.”
My blog, a thought or two