… and I am slowly getting back on my feet. Was tired, firmly in the horizontal and absent even from blogging world for best of reasons last week: a visit to Tate Modern for a glorious encounter with my artist-heroine Louise Bourgeois (not in person, obviously). I like/feel drawn to/smile about/am touched by/marvel at a lot of her work. It’s delicious, meaty, sensual, emotional, obsessive, incestuous, perspicacious (I would not have said this, but can write this!), quite mad and entirely sane, it makes me think and feel, as art should - I could go on… That was last Monday and I’m still swooning. Physically and mentally dislodged, actually physically put out of commission for most of the week, but mentally inspired, so there.
It was so good to see so much of her work ‘life’, I knew a few of the pieces from other exhibitions over the years, but most only in reproduction. Went on my own because I wanted that first encounter to be a private one. I can’t walk great distances or stand for long, soon feel gravity pulling at me and pressing me to lie down, so strolling through this huge show and staying upright while gazing rapturously (and of course critically) at artwork would have been beyond me. Tate Modern is brilliant because it’s one of the rare museums where you can borrow an electro-scooter, so there I went and loved every minute of it.
One of the main things that I took home with me, apart from marveling at the breadth/scope/abundance of her work over the decades and up to and including today, is that LB always seemed to do absolutely her own thing, didn’t try to fit in anywhere, worked and works from within herself. This is not to say that she wasn’t aware of and inspired by other artists and what was going on around her, but still her vision was entirely her own. Want to take courage from that for myself, my own work, she shows it’s elemental and truth-in-flux-kind-of-integral to being an artist. Or at least the kind of artist I want to be. Remind me when I'm next in one of my regular doubting periods.