Imagine this: my living-room has been transformed into something resembling a gallery-space and a selection of six year’s art has been displayed on walls and shelves. I am there, poured into an armchair, watching people react to and interact with my work, I chat with my visitors, give clues about the background of individual pieces, receive feedback… Yes, it happened! I took part in an artists’ open studio/open house event and for a weekend showed my art here, at home, where it has been made. It was an amazing time, especially as my work inspired immense enthusiasm. People who had been here on the Saturday sent their friends the next day and my visitors’ book is filled with lovely comments by artists and art enthusiasts alike. They were all agreed that my show was unlike anything else they’d encountered on their artists’ trail. So there! I grew a couple of inches and now have to stoop to get through my doors.
And it was good for me to see my work displayed. It showed me that not only do I have enough (good and interesting) work to fill gallery spaces, but that the disparate strands sit well together, communicating with and bouncing off each other. There’s a really good exhibition here. One day…
Also shown: Not food, not air, not filth, not hair, My mother has golden hair, my Hunchbacked girl (I’m thinking of calling the work House), a winged figure, tiny dancing dresses cut from autumn-leaves, other bits and pieces and a strange hairy something which hangs from my lamp by default.
And now you know why I haven’t been posting here or have been dragging my feet answering the comments some of you left (thank you). I’m still hoping to catch up, but also very tired, esp. after a very interesting hospital appointment. As ever, please, bear with me.
