Some days, especially the shorter ones at this end of the year, it seems that not much is achieved apart from providing the just-about necessary care to self and the bipeds and quadrupeds in my life. Days literally eaten up by the cooking of dinners and the organizing of school lunches—the aftermath of which sometimes feels that it will absorb more energy that can possibly be mustered—the necessary daily toing and froing in the landscape to deliver people to appropriate places at adequate times and the carrying of victuals to animals. Even putting the homework and the planting of garlic on the longest finger I find it difficult to imagine that I will ever find time again to go into the studio.
In this November time and these oh so human circumstances one must attempt to do all absolutely all as a piece of art, see beauty or pattern, bring intent, and even fail artistically. And then as well, never guiltily, do some bricolage on the kitchen table, something with gathered twigs or leaves, needle felting in instalments, breaking hazelnuts in elegant perfect halves, but also arrange the lunch herrings in the middle of the plates and stop to admire the perfect still life before piling the salad in there somewhere. In these human circumstances one must remember to be alive to oneself and one’s core, and honour it, and I see my core as quirky indeed.