Spatter of rain on slate, seamless run of water.
Talking with a friend about buying art, the ability to tell when a work is serious, more than just beautiful or intriguing. In other words, when the work approaches becoming art. What is defamiliarised, what points towards the future.
Making chicken soup for flu-stricken friends, simmering fresh organic chicken and fresh vegetables, skimming the surface all golden with little chickeny globules of fat, straining. A clear golden broth, with the option of a root vegetable and barley soup for vegetarians.
Cooped up in the study on a winter day, wanting to go away and sit next to a great floor to ceiling pane of transparent glass that overlooks fields and hills, just sit there with steaming dark Earl Grey tea in a white porcelain cup and pages of text neatly stacked, a marking pen that won’t blotch ink on the linen tablecloth: no dogs, no mugs to be washed, no dusting, no dogs barking, no dog hairs on the sofa, no phones ringing, no everyday mess or clutter. Just the rainy valley far below and the green of the fields. A horse, swishing its tail perhaps. To be able to work uninterrupted.
“The more I’ve learned in my life, the more acutely I’ve felt my hunger and blindness, and at the same time the closer I’ve felt to the end of hunger, the end of blindness. At times I’ve felt myself to be clinging onto the rim – of what I can hardly say without the risk of sounding ridiculous – only to slip and find myself deeper in the hole than ever. And there, in the dark, I find again in myself a form of praise for all that continues to crush my certainty.”