Apart from some tweaking of colour here and there, that's it. The apples were multiplying like rabbits and I had to put a stop to it. As in life, making a choice among many equally interesting possibilities has always been a problem for me and trying to include them all is just smorgasbord - nice, but not as satisfying as a real meal.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Here it is in today's Guardian, nestled among the, er, Sidelines.
Well, what did I expect? Fireworks? The reasons they chose our entries? Quotes from the entries themselves? Goodness gracious me, give her an inch and she wants a mile, put her on the shortlist and she wants to be the winner, make her a winner and she wants a full page puff. Never satisfied.
Heh heh. Not true. I'm chuffed.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Went to see Louise Bourgeois at the Tate Modern on Saturday. If you expect an objective review of the exhibition, look away now. Privately (unless I have to be teacherly or technical) I look at art in a strictly biased, blinkered, subjective, egocentric way. It either speaks to me personally or it doesn't. If it doesn't, I might pass by silently or I might express a judgement that completely misses the point or is at odds with the most esteemed critical opinions. But I don't mind.
So: Louise. If I had met her, I'm pretty sure we would have become friends. I love her face, her brusque speech, her disdain of niceties, her fragility, her toughness. But I don't love her art. Like Frida Kahlo (whom she obliquely reminds me of) she is a wounded soul and those wounds dominate her landscape, obliging you to share her prison. Entering her cells feels like stepping into the house of a terminally ill, neglected, abandoned person. You feel compassion for the patient and admire the sinister beauty of their claustrophobic ambiance (smelling of camphor, lavender, dust and rage) but you can't wait to get out of there.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
It is a struggle: this cannot be denied. Struggling is not enjoyable.You can't call enjoyable an activity during which you're in a state of terror and tension, eyes, ears and nose pricked up like a deer being hunted, knowing that at any moment it could be curtains. Maybe that's why I've been so unfaithful to this calling, this joy that is so painful. Because I'm pleasure-loving and I give up on things that require sustained effort and attention. Allright that's not true. I did and I do undertake a lot of work in my life which demands long hard slog and I manage to complete it. But reluctantly, teeth gritted. My teeth are full of grit from all the gritting I've subjected them to. In my heart of hearts, I want everything to be easy. Wonderful art to flow non-stop from my fingers like honey from a spoon; life, love, liberty, relationships and happiness and knowledge and wisdom - all of it to be simple, straightforward, quickly achieved, effortless, with clear instructions in large type on a single sheet of paper: if you do A it gives you B which leads to C and that's it. All done and all perfect.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Thrilled to bits in a nonchalant way to be one of six chosen out of 700 entries to the Guardian Mary Stott Prize Competition (I had sent an entry back in July) booted and beautified I swaggered over to a posh private club in Covent Garden weirdly appropriately called "The Hospital" and within minutes I was swigging champagne out of long tall glasses and being welcomed by Kira Cochrane, women's editor, Katharine Viner, features editor, and other Guardian luminaries who, strangely, seemed to know all about me and as if that wasn't enough soon I was chatting with Joan Bakewell, Katharine Whitehorn, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown and Posy Simmonds all of whom happen to be among the most brilliantly talented women on the planet.
When the crowd and the sound of talking was at its peak, there was a plea for silence and two enormous bouquets of flowers appeared. By that time the heels of my deceitful bargain boots were giving me serious aggravation but, fortified by several slim flutes of golden liquid, I was in jovial mood as I waited to hear the winner's name, certain that it was not me since the victorious one was supposed to have been contacted six weeks earlier.
Kira Cochrane said: "The winner is...." and read out two names.
One of which was Natalie d'Arbeloff. That's funny, I thought, someone has the same name as me.
But it was me, your actual moi.
As well as another woman (I'm really sorry but at this moment I don't remember her name).
We are joint winners of The Prize.
One of the two bouquets was for me.
An envelope containing a cheque for £500 was handed to me by Catherine Stott, delightful daughter of Mary Stott, and we talked.
Some time early in the new year I get to be editor of Guardian Women for a week.
My tortured toes sang an operatic aria, hitting notes of pleasure-pain never heard before.
I took a taxi home.
How many exclamation marks do you need?
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Q: Who is this?
A: Me, all dressed up to go to a party tonight, wearing my new high-heeled black boots.
Q: What is this?
A: A fabulous bouquet of flowers sitting on my kitchen table, still in its shiny wrapping paper.
Q: What is this?
A: Me, back home from the party.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Friday, November 02, 2007
This is my latest version but the photo was taken under electric light so the colours are not true to the painting. In fact the transltion from canvas to camera to computer to website to internet doesn't allow for accurate reproduction. Never mind, at least you can follow the changes. I don't know if any more apples are going to appear. Maybe it's just a foursome. I might call it "Time Travel".