ANGELAGOODMANART
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It was during the dream time. The time when we were suspended between universes, between light and dark, life and death. The time when I saw the falling star and the fox.
 
The world was in semi-sleep and dreaming, but as always with dreams, the dark mares flitted with manes like black water, through consciousness and unconsciousness. Tales of horror and trauma infiltrated those almost silent sunshine days. Echoes of far off battles, corridors and machinery, exhausted running feet, precious breath, the push of the ventilator and the beeping of monitors… the valiant and the dead… yes that was there, even in the quiet of the night and even in our deepest sleep. We were there, and not there.
 
Death waited in the touch and in the breath.
 
I had trouble sleeping. Woke at four each morning with heart pounding, and speeding, circling, go-nowhere thoughts. Fear prowled the room. What if. What if. Guilt blacked out all hope of dawn and made the future dark. I was alive. Did I deserve it. Would it even last? What if. What if. I rose. Made tea. Tried to read. Went to a window and watched the sky to the east and waited. Weeks… months… we were all waiting, so what was one more hour, to sit and watch and wait? We also serve, who only stand. And wait.
 
I thought of the Bristol churches with their watch towers looking eastwards, the faithful watching and waiting for another kind of dawn.
And waited.
And looking eastwards, there it was. My first ever falling star. A lonely Lyrid, falling… falling… briefly a light to our world.  Out there was hope perhaps.
 
As the sky greyed, things took form outside.
 
A moving shadow caught my gaze. It stopped. A glow of white fur under the body and face. Darkly silhouetted ears, inscrutable eyes, and stillness. Our eyes met through glass: the human being, trapped inside, locked in my own darkness and the small fox out there in the dawn. And I heard her, as if she spoke to me … no… not heard… sensed?... a message without words.
 
This is not a dream.
 
There is always hope.

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Pandemic

Sheds

2/9/2014

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Picture
So here I am.  The show at Poundbury went really well: kind people; a friendly atmosphere and enoughwork was sold to make me breathe a sigh of relief.  I hope to be back there next year. 
Before I left, David (gallery owner) asked, "What have you got coming up?"
I had to shrug and say 'Er... nothing really'.

This was because we were in the middle of the extended chaotic Bad Dream that is Moving House. All kinds of things happened.  No I won't tell the whole sorry tale of confusion, lost chickens and time forcibly frittered on phone calls to call-centres (you are 5th in the queue thanks for holding your call is important to us so we are playing you some hideous muzak...) and solicitors and removal companies.

Yes I could have been sorting out other exhibition venues but to be honest I've sold most of the work I thought was ok and haven't much left that I'd want to show.  I knew I couldn't get my head round painting for a while.   And to be honest I now need to paint for myself and not for a show.  I just need to get a body of work together that's just... well,,, ok.  And without thinking about whether anyone would ever want to buy it.

And now that I have got some head space back there's another problem. A studio. 

The photo above is of the back bedroom in the last house but just now there is no appropriate space in the new house and not much privacy either.
  There's a garage (clammy, dark and full of tools and car) and a shed (less dark and empty but still a bit clammy).  In the warm days of June I thought I'd have time to paint there before winter set in but this morning was bloody cold. It brings home the truth that's been lurking in the back of my brain for a while.... I need to insulate it.

By the way, (and this is fascinating) on consulting You Tube about the matter, I was informed in the first video I watched, that one of the most frequently asked questions is actually not what you might imagine...i.e.  'What Is The Meaning of Life... the Universe... the appeal of those nasty Tunnocks tea cakes... or Boris Johnson's hair...?"

No. Apparently it's"How Can I Insulate My Shed?"

How indeed. It's a mystery. There are so many ways - all explained by men who (without too much disruption of the manly jaw and eyebrows) manage to look at you in a matey and mildly encouraging way but with perhaps a hint of pity. C'mon mate - you can do it - man up!

So I need to man up and start.  Otherwise no painting for the winter. And then where will I be...?

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    May 19th

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