sunny Saturday afternoon

 

I finish the third grid drawing this afternoon after my partner, M, has left for his weekend shift at work. The house is quiet. In the garden the fulsome breeze quickens the air and stirs the tall yellow daisies into a Gavotte. I photograph the three drawings, copy the photograph to the computer. I prefer to photograph my work place and thus my drawings , in natural light. The light which penetrates the cotoneaster beyond the window is dappled at midday, silvery in the late afternoon, which is when I photograph the drawings. 

 As I did yesterday, I find my wondering about these small, subtle drawings. My mind is full of the book by Anne Truitt; I am reading the third volume of her autobiography- I have the second on order from the United States, but this arrived by post today and I cannot wait for the third to arrive-and am swiftly drawn into her world. I cannot share her experience of being a wife, mother and artist, only that of being an artist, and a much less prominent one at that. In the third volume she describes herself as having been reclusive, a state of being with which I can identify; since the outbreak of the Covid 19 pandemic, I have become more withdrawn, less able to share my work; indeed withdrew from an exhibition at the cafe of the local Arts Centre because I felt unprepared and had lost faith in my work.

I was to have shown the grid drawings; a major stumbling block would have been-and still is- the cost of having them framed by the framer of my choice, who conducts his business in ethically admirable fashion, and is a framer par excellence. I could imagine how the little sensitive drawings would have appeared- modest- is the word that springs to mind. I am pleased with their modesty, their subtlety, but I was terribly anxious as to how they would appear to others. Often I question whether they are 'art' at all; as I wrote elsewhere it is difficult to keep the faith.

I take myself into the garden with Anne Truitt and Minos and spend a thoroughly absorbing hour or two in their company; Minos claiming my attention periodically as only he knows how to do. The little violas planted over Silas's grave are coming to the end of their exsquisite life; I must seek out winter bedding for him. Beneath the violas are planted bulbs; parrot tulips in shades of creamy lemon, burgundy and burnt orange. I only leave the beguiling Autumnal afternoon when I hear the telephone sound within the house; my youngest sister calls me, then almost immediately afterwards, my mother; we speak for nearly an hour. 

Perhaps I am a mother after all; to my own mother, who turns to us for reassurance and the allaying of fears which assume monstrous proportions in her mind. It was ever thus.

September afternoon 2020

 

Is it perversity of my part to persist in making these intense little drawings, of whose artistic merit I am undecided? I know that my partner, M, prefers the supernova remnant drawings and views the grid drawings as something I do to pass the hours and soothe my mind. It is true that colouring in one hundred and sixty nine little squares is a calming activity, and it does indeed fulfill my need to be engaged in an act of creation. If only I knew! Both Agnes Martin and Anne Truitt persisted in their work of creating abstract works which sometimes found no favour in the eyes of an audience. I am by no means aligning myself alongside these two significant artists in terms of my prowess, but their example lends me courage to continue in my own endeavour. 

It is a fine, blowy afternoon. The breeze sets the tall yellow daisies dancing, blows the thin wisps of hair that frame my face across the field of my vision. I have taken my notebook into the garden to finish the grid drawing that I began much earlier in the day, and so sit with Minos, who requests my attention every now and then by giving gentle utterance. The bench where we sit is shaded by the cotoneaster, dappled with sunlight, the moving air is refreshing without chilling.

 All the while that I am drawing the question posed above flickers through my mind. Am I truly obsessed, am I following a genuine path to growth, or stumbling through the underbrush? It is impossible to know, and difficult to keep the faith. I only have scattered comments with which to shore up my fragile confidence. I know that the person whose judgement I have come to trust, the person who frames my drawings when I am able to have them framed, likes them. My great friend L said they were beautiful; she said it twice, and although I remember changing the subject quickly, I also remember the glow of pleasure that her words engendered within me. I gave one of the drawings, entitled 'my sister's harlequin slippers', to one of my sisters for her birthday, as she had admired it. These three persons, whom I believe to have discernemnt, are those for whom I continue to make the drawings, in the hopes that perhaps one day they might find and enjoy a wider audience.

temporality

 

Hard on the heels of Silas's death , an exquisite torture overtakes me; a truly fathomless panic. I am made acutely aware of the relentless march of time and although I had somehow expected my dear little household to persist forever, I am all of a sudden persuaded that it is extremely perishable, vulnerable to the ravages of the passing years. I ask my partner to look up the definition of temporality, a word that impinges painfully upon my conciousness; we find that it is the word that describes our ultimate lack of defence in the face of changing circumstance, that it describes the condition of all that lives. All will die; we ourselves shall return to the dust from which we are contrived, the very stars will wink out and a profound darkness will prevail. I am at the mercy of this realisation for the whole of the day, although yesterday, the day when I committed Silas's obituary to print, the pit of despair yawned deeper. 

Today, despite the closing words of the journal that I keep alongside this online diary, which conveyed a desire to relinquish for good the notion of being a visual artist, I gather together a fresh palette of coloured pencils, I take up my notebook of squared paper, and I make a grid drawing, the first for days for which I have any regard. As yet untitled, it is not reflective of my state of mind, rather it suggests a lighter mood, being rendered in spiritual blues, luminescent orange and pink, dark violet, light ochre, crimson lake and turquoise.

After having coloured in one hundred and sixty nine little squares, I repair to the garden with notebook and graphite pencil, and, in the company of Minos, ambassadorial Minos, proceed to overlay each square with the graphite pencil, until a delicate veil shimmers across the colours. The completed drawing hangs in my mind like a screen; the relief I feel is immeasurable; I am convinced that the grid drawings represent the straight forward path, a path I had somehow lost sight of during my wanderings in the forest dark. 

remnants September 2020

 

It is hard enough to work at present. I am aware of the presence of a depressed mood, dulling my mind, rendering my hand inactive. Am I depressed, or is the lowering of my mood the sadness of grief? I need to be watchful, for I sense the winding sheet of depression about to enfold me. Nevertheless I find within me the resources to capture images of recent drawings with my camera. The above drawings were made, with the exception of the fourth, before the death of Silas. The fourth, the following day. There have been two others, but they do not please my eye. 

It is a day of still air and great heat. Minos seeks shelter beneath the cotoneaster; a rambling shrub that grows alongside the wall separating us from our neighbour. I sit with him for a while in quiet companionship, then repair indoors to photograph the remnant drawings made during this month. The act of photographing the drawings is helpful; satisfies my need to be active, engaged, even if I feel something amounting to horror at the hours yet to pass before my partner returns from his place of work. 

 A poet once wrote something along these lines; 'what keeps you from your work becomes your work'. I ponder this whilst I sit on the bench with Minos. I feel no inclination to work in visual terms, although did make a fresh beginning in my notebook a couple of evenings ago. I am reading 'Daybook' by Anne Truitt, which  is deeply satisfying and illuminating. I know that I could never write as she did, yet reading through some of the notes made earlier in the year I sense a voice, timorous in places, yet nevertheless a voice distinguished by it's uniqueness. My youngest sister tells me that she is keeping a journal; I resolve to do the same, to chronicle my life as I live it from day to day, jotting down thoughts, ideas, should they come, chart my emotional responses to life events as they unfold around me.

I write in different places; I haven't a consistent , dedicated repository for my words. Perhaps that does not matter at this stage. I am aware that the words I commit to this online diary are different from the words that I commit to my notebook. The very act of setting down words is different; sometimes I feel that although I cherish the idea of writing longhand in a journal with a fine black pen, I am, despite my lack of fluency at the keyboard, a better thinker when I type. Perhaps it is the question of audience that influences me and my thought processes. I know that when I publish words here, I am writing for an audience; that necessarily shapes one's thoughts in a way perhaps not utilised or appropriate when one writes in a journal. 

During the seven long years in which I was unable to make visual work, I yet found myself able to write; this means of communication has never deserted me in the way that my capacity to organise my thoughts and ideas in visual terms has, leaving a fathomless void in my life. At least there was something, a vestige of the facility to communicate; I held fast to that ability, using it to scribe my deepest fears and and insecurities about being an artist. For, despite these ephemeral drawings, and my love of the sooty black paper on which they are made, I still do not consider myself an artist; I do not believe making visual art to be my first love, despite my training and background, my years of practice.

What then? How do I then define myself? Am I a writer, despite having failed to complete written assignments on time, if at all, owing to an inability to organise my thoughts in coherent sequences? I remember the piece of written work that I submitted as part  of my undergraduate degree; I described the condition of not being able to project a presence in literary terms, the utter collapse of my thinking and ability to complete even simple sentences, my fear at making an appearence in terms of textual discourse.  It seems significant that that piece of work gained me the marks of a first class degree, even though my visual work did not.

I am moved to write at present, not to make visual work; the lack of desire in this respect is an indicator; I need to rest, during this difficult period in my life I need to lay aside any thought of visual work and instead concentrate my efforts elsewhere. Perhaps it is not helpful to worry at the question of how I define myself; it is only profound insecurity that makes me do so, an insecurity that may well be relieved at least in part by the act of commiting words to this diary, and, or, my notebook. 

I am aware of a lightening of my mood, a sense of relief; I can write, even if, for the moment, I cannot draw. I shall end the day with a feeling of accomplishment, a blessed gift that I shall carry with me until I close my eyes in slumber.

Silas

 

My partner and I had been living at Garston's Lodge for two years when the kittens were born of their feral mother whom we came to know as Alice. Their place of birth was a burrow deep beneath the wall of the garage, adjacent to the compost heap, whereon they can be seen in this photograph taken a short while after we discovered them. Silas is the tabby tucked behind his tabby sibling, for whom disaster struck and who one day was absent. This kitten we have named , posthumously, Mimas. Alice disappeared around the same time and I began the long, slow task of accustoming the remaining youngsters, Silas and Minos, to ourselves and our home. Months were spent in quiet care of them, until, one brilliantly frosty morning they came bounding down the path to meet me as I brought their breakfast. From that day they became bolder, gradually venturing into the lodge, until they became dearly loved members of our household, along with Alice, who 'adopted' us for a short while before leaving us when we were obliged to leave the lodge.

Fourteen years have passed . My partner and I no longer live at the lodge, but in a very different house in Frome, Somerset. Until September 2nd, we all; my partner, myself, Minos and Silas lived together in loving accord. On September 2nd, Silas, our gentle tabby, died. I found him in the garden where he had been sleeping. I gathered his dear body in my arms and wept into his fur. My partner and I buried him where I had found him. Days later I plant tiny, beautiful violas over him. My heart is heavy within me, for we have lost a beloved friend.

studio afternoon June 4 2020

Finding it difficult to settle to work this afternoon, nevertheless, one drawing of the transit of Mercury is finished; number seven of around fourteen, thus I have reached the half way mark.

I call my mother and her voice brightens on the other end of the telephone as she tells me that it is good to hear my voice. I reply that it is good to hear her's, also and for just a few moments the conversation proceeds on an even keel. It quickly plunges into irretrievable depths,however, as she becomes tearful , describing how she wishes she were dead, she will die of loneliness and isolation. The conversation closes on an angry note as she puts the telephone down, and I am left in a welter of frustration and self hatred for having upset her. She had told me that she was afraid to walk the few steps into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea in case she fell ( she has very little sight and her ability to balance is compromised). I replied that if that were indeed the case then perhaps it was indicative of her need to be in residential care. She became furious with me and I regretted the words as soon as they had left my mouth; I realised that once more I had spoken where perhaps I should have been silent. Why cannot I be kind to her? What would a person for whom kindness is second nature have said? What would someone other than a tired, frightened, despairing daughter have said?

studio morning June 4 2020

I awaken early, before five and the light is beautiful. I make coffee and return to bed without disturbing my partner, but I cannot return to sleep. Instead I get up, go downstairs and photograph the drawings made yesterday of the transit of Mercury 2016. Fragile drawings on lightweight Lokta paper, more like tissue. Following a diagram  printed from the internet showing in one image the passage of the tiny black dot of Mercury making it's way across the face of the sun.

I found it difficult to work yesterday, even though I find pleasure in making this suite of delicate drawings, and fully intend to make more of other recorded transits. Easily distracted from my task and subject to frequent episodes of loss of confidence, I am restless and worried.

'I Remain in Darkness' is a slim text chronicling the decline of a mother, written by the daughter; Annie Ernaux. The mother is suffering from Alzheimer's Dementia. As is my own mother. I am moved to write of our experience, but feel reluctant to expose my mother. I draw, lay down my pencil, pick up the poignant journal of Ernaux, read a little, return to my work, and so it goes until time to prepare the evening meal. I feel a little more settled when it is time to go to bed, but do not sleep restfully and awaken to hear the first carolling of the birds.

My mother is on my mind; it is difficult to concentrate upon drawing, or upon anything, for that matter. The morning and the beginning of the afternoon pass before I commit myself to working, and I am aware that I have not yet called my mother on the telephone. I receive a text message from one of my sisters which closes with the words, "Mum not good today". This message was transmitted yesterday evening, and I missed it, only seeing it this afternoon; I feel an instant shock of alarm and an almost simulataneous stab of guilt. I must hasten to close this journal entry, reply to my sister and call my mother; I shall not be able to return to the drawings until I have done so. A blackbird calls poignantly in the garden, the day is cool and fresh, the air sweet scented, my heart heavy within me.