Wednesday is a workday. Every workday needs to be monetised.
So my question at breakfast was ‘why am I here’. It’s now lunchtime. I am sitting eating spinach and ricotta cheese tortellini, sharing a table with fast speaking French men in an Italian restaurant.
The burners are fired on. Noise fills the tiny space. Bodies fill stools on one side looking onto the street; they fill three tiny tables the other. On red tiles, the queue fills the space in waves. Through the bulk of figures I can see the depth as the rectangular room gives way to a smaller squarer florescent wash kitchen. I can see space, rhythm and shapes.
When the queue dissipates the proprietor paces up and down in air thick with adrenalin. Like a fighter he’s ready for the door to swing.
I see the space now and feel so alive I have to concentrate not to cry with it’s beauty. I see it because I have sat with Frances finding space in the life room, zoom…a wobbly line shoots over Ingres paper. The charcoal does the work. Gentle, an eye, a hand full of form finding knowledge. Knowledge of shapes on a flat page. Knowledge found from time and love.
My question at lunch is ‘why am I not here’.