I've got two things in the Fringe Arts Bath festival: Gisele Pelicot in the The Stitch That Bit Back exhibition in the Newark Works, and Horse D'Hoovers in The Motive of the Puppeteer exhibition in the Old Glassworks.
Until Wednesday- it's a fantastic day out if you get the chance! There is so much to see.
I wonder if people buy books of drawings? I must have 250 or more drawings now, with notes of the music that I was listening to when I drew each one. I try to imagine how it would work. The paper would have to be of very good quality, and I don't know how or where I would put the notes about the music. The music is really important; it's tied in with the drawings. Online would not be the same. I have noticed when the prints are made that you can see the texture of the pencil-meets-paper dynamic. One woman in Valencia contacted me to say she was concerned that she had bought the original, but I keep them separate from each other for just that reason.
John and Gabi from Tiny Global took the exhibition down last night, which was very kind of them. I have asked them to donate any remaining clip-frames to a charity that they support, and they will bring the unsold prints to the UK next time they come over.
The air is not so thick and soupy today, but I'm still disinclined to do much recording. I did a bit of editing earlier on, but mostly I will be playing guitar to keep my grip strong and my fingers calloused. I feel a bit as though I'm in suspended animation. Next Tuesday is the anniversary of James's death, and images of that time are intruding whether I want them to or not. On the day itself, I'll be in Bath invigilating at the Fringe Arts Bath exhibition, which will be a good place to be.
We all experienced that moment in different ways, and some family members will be having a get-together which will be very sad but also very supportive. It's comforting to feel that he must have known how much he was loved during those last days and hours in the hospital. It was powerful: so many of us there, talking to him and looking after him alongside the medical staff who were keeping him comfortable and calm. We were supporting each other, too, sitting in the café downstairs and chatting in between stints of sitting in his room with him.
When the day passes, will things feel different? I don't know. A wave of sadness came at the funeral, and then afterwards there was the feeling of a huge vacancy. We spent the first seven years of James's life as siblings, and we can't check in on each other with micro memories about that time any more. The difference between photographs and reality has never seemed more stark. He was a solid little chap who soon grew taller and stronger than me, and we were constantly trying to outwit each other. Siblings who are close in age have a particular sort of friendship whose intensity is watered down by rivalry, but simultaneously the urge to defend each other from external challenges and aggressions is incredibly strong. Simply, there was nothing in the world as good as having a pal to climb trees with, completely fearlessly and thoughtlessly. Our parents were the opposite of helicopter parents; forty days at sea parents. The two of us scrapped, shouted, ran, climbed and eventually were in a band together. No wonder I still miss him.
Somehow it doesn't seem so hot today, but that's probably because I haven't been wandering around much. I went for coffee with my neighbour Keith and came back to do a little bit of recording.
I remember that from last time, working in fits and starts to get things sounding right. Because I'm playing guitar in so many different ways on these songs, I'm a bit shaky and I'm having to try all sorts of tricks to get the music out of my hands. I only did an hour, a combo of playing and editing, and will wait till tomorrow to see how it sounds.
There are three flies the size of helicopters flying circuits between the kitchen and here. Every time one of them goes outside, it seems as though it's replaced by another. Thankfully, they are not in landing mode at the moment and I don't have to worry about their horrid little poisonous feet. What with them and the tiny ants coming in looking for whatever they can get their claws on, it's busy round here. Oh yes, and the baby rat in the compost bin! I gave that a wide berth, because of being bitten by a baby rat that I thought was a mouse a few years go. Trusty thick garden gloves the next time I open it to fling in the scraps.
Oh yes, yes too: the poor drowned snail in the watering can that I mistook for a stone, and picked out with my fingers, pinching a shockingly slimy cold splodge between finger and thumb, and shuddering when I realised what it was.
It's like being in the jungle, except the creatures are miniscule. There's nothing to interest David Attenbrough here; there are no hedgehogs or frogs, though I heard a fox singing an entire opera two nights ago, condensed into five minutes of yowling and screaming. A foxera. I'm sure other foxes knew what it meant, but I couldn't understand it no matter how hard I tried. I was glad of the distraction: it's so hard to get to sleep on these hot nights; a bit of small-hours entertainment breaks the tedium.
Whistler was a quirky artist, and probably quite an unpleasant man. In this exhibition there are at least three incidences of him falling out with friends or fellow artists dramatically badly and one of his portraits, of a teenage girl, gives the game away because she looks utterly miserable.
Yet there are some beautiful works in this exhibition. By far the best are the copious tiny sketches he did as he travelled around Europe, having sued Ruskin (also seemingly a horrible man) for defamation after Ruskin said his work was akin to him chucking paint in people's faces, and being awarded a pitiful amount and going bankrupt. There are also some wonderful etchings, a medium of which he was an absolute master; although critics rave about his use of colour, it's the black and white work that appealed the most. There are several self-portraits, and we see him ageing like a rock star, clearly a vain man. His interests, though, were wide and well, interesting: he loved Japanoiserie and collected blue and white china. Somewhat out of character, he could paint very Japanese-looking peacocks. This exhibition demonstrates his love of experimentation and his dislike of the finished article; he's very much a man after my own heart in that respect. My favourite painting is this one, Chelsea Girl. I just love it: she is the coolest little girl ever, and I wish we saw more tough little working class children in the work of famous painters.
My verdict is that it's well worth a visit but wait till it's been around for a while and is less crowded. There are a lot of 'splainers there at the moment, and getting close enough to the little artworks to appreciate them properly can be a trial. Ding dong, over and out.
We were terrified.
I think I might be about to ditch another song. It was to be the last one, but the last song on the last album didn't attract any attention at all, and I don't want a 'disappearing back' on this album. I will give it a bit of time to see what else turns up.
Not much progress was made today apart from a bit of re-familiarisation with Logic. I'm not sure if I'm getting better at stuff, or just more critical of what I'm doing: it's hard to tell.
The problem with not much recording progress today is that the whole house need to be cleaned, and I don't want to do it!
