I love a challenge. Most of us do, don’t we? Even if it’s only watching someone else attempt something brave, or foolish, or unusual. If I think back through my life, my mantra has always been ‘just because I’ve never done something, doesn’t mean I can’t’. And so, way back, pre-Covid and all the lockdowns, I asked my friends to set me some challenges as a way to help build my new life.

Many suggestions followed, including a range of things I’d already done (gardening, for instance) and some I wasn’t sure how to tackle (become a drag queen for a day). But then my friend Katie came up with the solid-gold goods – apply for an Art Residency in Bath.

In return for a whopping studio space for eight weeks, and an exhibition of my work at the end, I had to submit a proposal, and be willing to do some seminars and workshops. None of which I’d done before, so challenge requirements absolutely met. A leap into that big old void happily beckoned.

Bit of a snag tho: at that time, I hadn’t actually done any art for over three years, so I didn’t have any projects on the go. There was literally nothing I was working on. My art practice was zilch.

I decided to capitalise on that and call my proposal ‘How To Build An Artist’. The idea was that my life had changed so dramatically in the last few years, it was inappropriate to reference the artist I’d been before: I was no longer the same person. Those years had changed me and my outlook on life.

Plus, I wondered what it would be like to completely let go of the things I’d done previously, and start again with a total blank page, and nothing to fall back on or use as a crutch? How would I find the artist I was now? What processes would I have to employ, or create, that would lead me forwards instead of back?

Lots of taking big-girl pills probably, but what the hell, right?

So I got awarded the Residency, and then Covid and lockdowns, and blah blah blah, until last Sunday saw me driving down to Bath, a full six years now since I did any art at all, and freaking myself the fuck out.

But…

My swanky new studio space is located right between the Roman Baths and the shop that doubles as Modiste, in Bridgerton. Prime location, oh yes. Although I’m in the basement, I can still hear the rather classy buskers outside the Abbey, all day long. But I must get to work so I head off into town looking for supplies. My intention is to buy a big roll of lining paper and tape it over a whole wall. This will be my blank canvas, my starting point, my what-the-hell-have-I-done moment.

I pass several homeless people who are doing various things to earn a bit of money. One lady is playing the recorder, quite painfully, but with great intent. Another very scary-looking bloke has quit his patch to shout at a couple walking down the street away from him. As I get closer I hear what he’s saying: ‘Love you!’ he shrieks. They turn and wave, yelling it back.

One chap is selling poems, two quid a pop. I ask him to help me choose, and he is sweet and well-spoken, but vague. I buy ‘Endure’ and ‘Something Before’. I take a peek at them as I walk and note that this man has a particular rhythm he likes, and a real flair for alliteration.

“The Lies, the truth, the sanity, the mad. The living, the dead, my mum and my dad,” I read. “I’m ridiculed, I’m rugged, I’m righteous and raw. I’m something now that I wasn’t before.”

On reflection, four quid seems very little for a piece of a man’s soul.

Back at the studio I hang my lining paper and the poems, and copy some of the words from one to the other. Then I just start smacking paint over it. Every time I feel pulled back to what was familiar, I grab a different sized brush, or a strip of wood (yeah, I know), or a palette knife, and use that instead. I keep changing colour, making sure that each time I’m editing myself towards one colour I go for its opposite instead. If the marks I’m making seemed easy or familiar, I force myself to do the opposite movement – big gestures instead of small, sweeping instead of detailed. The end result is a terrible picture, but it covers a wall, and has got me past the ‘blank white page’ without resorting to old habits.

But spending time in Bath is bringing up lots of memories. Steve and I lived here for ten years before we cleared off in our RV, and I miss him horrendously. I cry as I drive back to the house I’m staying in. I try to deal with the emotions by letting them breathe, then asking then to just move aside. Just for now. Please. But they persist, like a road block I can’t see around.

And then I realise: they are the project.

Since Steve died I’ve been searching for a way to build a life; one that still has joy and beauty and purpose. Although constantly beset by little memory-knives stabbing at me, I try to distract myself with something palatable and do-able. Because, what other choice is there? It’s only in movies where the grief-stricken get to lie in bed for a year, looking badly made-up yet still delicately beautiful, not even rising to go to the loo apparently, whilst someone else handily encourages them to eat.

And what are my skills for navigating this solo shot? Words and pictures. I’ve been unable to vocalise my grieving in this blog – the words don’t pass muster, they are too inadequate. But perhaps pictures may say it better? It seems I’m not trying ‘To Build An Artist’ after all. I’m trying to express loss, and the ways we cope with it.

The next day, I immediately go out and buy two hundred plastic knives.

I dip them in paint, and for a while I have a veritable forest of colour jabbed into some cardboard I’ve fished out of a bin bag.

Once they’re dry, I arrange them in patterns so their functionality – their knife-ness – is lost. I want them to be beautiful, distracting and interesting (you get where I’m going with this) but, underneath, if you look closely, they’re still knives.

(I was going to say ‘you get the point?’, but even I won’t stoop that low.)

By now I need lunch, and coffee, and a chance to uncross my eyes from all the fiddly work. I trolley off to the Guildhall Market in the centre of Bath, and perch on a stool at a cafe counter. There’s a man next to me in a whacky hat with badges on. ‘Nice hat,’ I say. He explains the provenance of all his badges, my favourite being a 1935 army medal that he says was awarded for being able to drive without having to take a laxative. I have no way to check the veracity of this, so I happily believe him. He says he’s one of those Channel 5 hoarders, has a real problem, can’t stop buying stuff, also agoraphobic and didn’t come out of his house for nineteen years. Says he now makes sure he goes out once a week. I feel very lucky to have caught him on his ‘out’ day, because he is kind and avuncular and charming.

On the way out of the market I see a guy in a fabulous outfit, with an enormous, silver, peace-symbol dangling around his neck. I whip out my phone, and yell, ‘Pose!’ at him. He pauses for a split second. ‘With or without the retro leather jacket?’ he asks. Oh, with, darling boy; with.

Outside the Pump Room is a string quartet playing an Abba medley. I listen to ‘Money, money, money’, then sit next to the chap round the other side, gently playing Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Albatross’ on his guitar. I enjoy these moments while I can, as I know that once I’m down in my basement, there’s a strong possibility I will hear another four versions of Nessun Dorma filtering in, during course of the afternoon.

Before I leave for the day, I carefully move all the knives, but manage to give myself a gigantic paper-cut (I know) and bleed everywhere.

At the end of the week I drive back to Wokingham to check my mail and do my laundry. I do the rounds of all the charity shops and come home with another 243 knives; some of them plastic, but most stainless steel. I spend a happy evening arranging them into star shapes, and them start trawling the internet for razor blades. I know that at some point I’m going to have to explain this, and in such a way that all my relatives don’t start making doctors’ appointments for me. But for now I’m just obsessed with the problem of fixing 2.250KG of metal knives to a wall, whilst still making them look twinkly and ethereal.

10 Likes