Moving
I went and got myself lost.
I was swinging away merrily on my trapeze, I could do all sorts of tricks hanging from my strong tree with a sturdy branch for me. Apart from a temporary perch in London and Barcelona that tree had been home for 25 years.
Swing swing.
Swing swing.
Then a plan is hatched…exciting.
Love a plan.
Love a life plan.
Exciting.
Ok.
Swing swing.
Pack up my still life tableaux’s, my shelves, my studio, my identity. Rip the images from the walls, rip down the walls and floors of our home, our handcrafted work live, (also on a shelf) Put them all into a skip.
Place the salvaged remains in boxes labelled with marker pen, ‘open now’ or ‘archive’. Put all the most precious memories of tiny bits into the wrong type of box so it smashes and spills your life over the inside of the hire van.
It’s only stuff.
I literally don’t care. Swing swing.
Let go of the trapeze.
Carol let go of the trapeze.
Float.
Can’t really see the trapeze the other side by the way?
Float.
Most of my life goes into storage. Move into my new space, a chapel, a different architect, a different sensibility, still cant see the other trapeze by the way? Deadlines don’t move so work surrounded by mess and boxes with no time for gravity.
Float.
Then this morning I think about the labels for my show, my upcoming solo show… in my new tree. The one I was SO excited about. The tree that I wrote all those things in. The tree where I made those paintings and sculptures.
I see that I was in fact here all the time.
There are strong trees in Llanigon and London. And I also see its not necessarily the tree that has to be strong.
Swing swing.
Swing swing.
