Inspiration comes from unexpected sources, although a new-born child can’t help but stir the imagination.
Month: October 2013
My pal Abo sent me a packet of Chipotle from NZ a few weeks ago. It was his second attempt, the first having been disappeared by the South African Postal Service. Where the suprise in your gift is whether it makes it to you or not. I can just imagine the comments when they opened the first batch: and the coughing that followed its recreational use: “Haaugh … man die fokken, forren dagga is kak”**. Either that, or there is a keen amateur chef whipping up chipotle- rubbed snoek for his tjommies somewhere.
Lou hated interviews. And, as he saw it, I was the person who forced him around Europe every eighteen months or so, to give them. We would joust endlessly – and had clear roles: me to get him through – him to come up with every conceivable way to make that difficult. Walking into a wall of knives every day was exhausting and damaging. But I kept telling myself I had to do it, it was my job. But really, I wanted him to be successful.
If you are a woman over 45, chances are you are not availing yourself of Facetime, Photobooth or even Skype, unless the caller on the other side of the screen is someone who has known you for a lifetime and knows you don’t actually look like THAT. Despite following all and sundry internet suggestions on how to take a decent selfie, the picture on the screen of my iPhone always looks like some mask better worn on Halloween. And that is after the filters and available corrective effects. I have even disabled the turn-around feature in case I accidentally hit it and am even more unprepared for the scary monster the lens is refracting back.
No one forgets their first day of school, not even me, the queen of forgetting the whereabouts of everything, from my head to my car keys. October 1 was always the first day of school in Italy, way back when: hair tied back with a ribbon, white uniform and a dark red leather satchel that was bigger than me. I loved that satchel and I can still smell it to this day: leather, ink and paper all mixed together.
Philadelphia-based artist Matthew Cox layers embroidery on top of medical x-rays to create these wonderfully weird pieces. The mix of clashing mediums appeals to me: one quick, technical and impersonal, the other labor intensive, tactile and hands on. I like that one strips away and reveals while the other covers and enhances.
I was telling camparigirl that I feel ‘flat, flat, flat’ at the moment. Couldn’t form a creative thought, no inspiration, zero impetus: flat. “Oh”, she said … “I go through that too sometimes. It’ll come back.”
I get nervous when I hear the words ‘artistic process’. All sounds a bit navel gazing to the paragmatist in me. And let me be clear: I, in no way, consider myself an artist of any description. My flatness is a general thing: the food I have been cooking isn’t coming together right, I can’t get motivated to exercise, I am wearing the easiest, most boring clothes in my wardrobe, on repeat.
I’m not so much stuck on the ‘poopenstance’ book for the kids, as not getting to it. I need to deliver by Xmas: as that’s when I have promised them the first chapters, at least. And I don’t take my promises lightly.