Poppies flood the tower's moat, a river of blood pumps out of a turret window. All hand made, crimson ceramic flowers on top of thin green stems. The country over we are thinking about those that died.
My first poppy mosaic is made next week, funded by the church. War and religion always seem to go together.
Well that'll teach me. I have over worked and made myself very sick. I ended up on a drip watching a very dirty man weeing and swearing his way around the A and E ward at St Thomas's. By the time four security guards had him restrained, he had upset stressed doctors, busy nurses and bloody patients. I had to think quick, 'just a little cut' from a scalpel brandishing medic, that has just been mistreated, was not something I longed to experience. I watched the doctor from afar and as he approached, through lethargy and sheer terror I summoned my best smile and bashed my short eyelashes fast, I muttered, "Priorities first doctor, I have a party tomorrow lunch time and lots of work to do, I really can't stay here, got any drugs?". The lovely but manic doctor, jovially attached me to a drip of antibiotics and some saline, and as soon as I was full, and it was empty, I got my infected self out of there as fast as I could.
Why is it that life is spent either doing nothing but drinking champagne and sitting under trees or dying of exhaustion? Will the artist's life ever change? Last month I thought I would never work again, this month I am so over worked I can't put anything in the diary for the next year.
Blimey, well, that's it then. Better continue. So, exposing. So risky.
I have made myself ill. I worked sixteen hours a day for eight days on the trot and by day eight I was struck down by an awful bug. Its either that or coast along for months with little creative investment, making work that is so divorced from the heart one becomes seriously depressed. It seems to me that the stereotype of the artist's working life can be true, we tend to work in a cyclical fashion, a bit like with the seasons but without the predictability.
“The canary bird in the coal mine theory of the arts: artists should be treasured as alarm systems.”
My blog, a thought or two