An artist of the floating world...........

Waking up this morning to the sound of rain beating on the open windows was music to my ears. A slight acrid smell rose up from the grateful scorched earth. The curtains ballooned into the room as a brisk breeze blew an accumulation of dessicated flies off the windowsill. The air circulating round the bedroom was fresh and carried the scent from the Albertine roses that scrambled in a clumsy sprawl up the wall. No more relentless sun and brassy blue sky. Just good old grim, grey clouds. The lingering odour of last night's turps and linseed oil wafted up the stairs. Time to get up and sieze the day!

Clutching a piece of buttered toast (none of that polyunsaturated wax) I check my emails and discover one from a sniffy gallery in North Wales. They have returned the slides of my paintings with the excuse that they're 'not suitable' for their gallery. The first of many rejections the day. On the floor of my kitchen cum studio lies a five foot canvas covered with an abstract design. A 'work in progress'. I have decided to walk over the canvas in barefeet covered in red paint. Hmm! Red footprints. Very avant garde!

At 3pm a neighbour and fellow artist comes round to share his angst and a bottle of wine. There's not enough wine to get seriously drunk on so he takes his leave, but not before he tells me about the opportunity to exhibit in the city library. (Yes, I know, but it's better than nothing!) Tomorrow is the last day for putting up paintings. I'll be there.

The Sound and the fury

I arrived at the library at 9.30 this morning damp and depressed after being subjected to a bout of road rage at the traffic lights by some oik wearing the ubiquitous baseball cap and driving a beat up old Escort. As I idled at the red light thinking of nothing in particular the little car came rushing up behind me and immediately began beeping his horn. As I looked into the mirror I could see his idiot grinning face . He leaned over his steering wheel and flicked the Vs at me, continually blaring his horn and flashing his lights and mouthing obscenties at me the while! When the lights changed I put my foot down and sped off with Eric Escort in hot pursuit. I finally shook him off at a roundabout and pulled into the library car park as Eric shot past determinedly hunched over the wheel. I felt a bit trembly after this unexpected confrontation and decided to chill out on a cup of chocolate.

I sat quietly munching on a sandwich and drinking hot chocolate out of my Mr Men flask and found myself wondering about these aggressive and unsocialised young people. They have formed feral tribes and roam the streets at night in towns all over Britain. Looking for victims to beat, rob and sometimes kill, to satisfy their bloodlust and stimulate their desire for power and control which in their ordinary lives they feel they don't have. Poor little Britain!!

The knowledge that we gained inthe 60s and 70s when we were searching our souls (well some of us were!!!)seeking enlightenment and trying to be decent human beings doesn't really seem to have percolated down through to the children. They didn't want our legacy but grabbed their inheritance left to them by Maggie Thatcher and the Tories (sounds like a punk group) with both hands. 'Greed is good' and 'There's no such thing as society'. Only the material and Mammon matters ultimately. So that's how we are now.

Ah well! Ce la vie! I got out of the car and started taking the paintings out of the boot and staggered into the library.Patrick was sitting at one of the tables reading a newspaper and looked up when he saw me struggling with the paintings. Some of them are very large. We had agreeed that we would meet there and he would hang the pictures. Patrick's a nice guy. A bit eccentric but has a heart of gold. He's 6'2, thin and with black/grey hair and and slanty blue eyes like a cat. He resembles a basque ( A region in Northwest Spain) especially when he wears his black beret. I don't think he'd mind if I tell you he's not in his first bloom. He paints animals with curiously expressive and almost human faces. He's been on Safari in South Africa to 'shoot' the animals. His only weapon was a camera though.

After the pictures had been hung and admired and the guest book hung up on a hook with it's own pencil on a piece of string, we decided to go for a coffee. Patrick would prefer to go the pub but I'm driving and the police are red hot on drink driving here in Wales. We had a very sticky moment two weeks ago when we went to an exhibition in Swansea. It was held in a chic little gallery, crowded with lots of pretentious wannabees and scruffy, down at heel artists who'd come for the delicious finger buffet and the free wine. Patrick had kindly given us a lift, but when he arrived he immediately began 'sampling' the wine. Many 'samples' later he was very drunk indeed, but he insisted on driving his car and resisted the idea of anyone else driving . He's very territorial. The drive home was traumatic as the car almost left the road several times, not to mention travelling at break neck speed. Patrick had to brake hard frequently and the acrid smell of burning rubber filled our dilated nostrils! I was sitting at the front with eyes tightly closed. If I'd opened them I would have simply started screaming! Somehow we got home safely but with shattered nerves and in great need of a very stiff drink!!.