Tuesday, July 31, 2007
I hate to think of myself as a cliché and yet during the past few weeks I have lived up to the cheesy stereotype of a depressive, unreliable, chaotic artist.I've been remiss in nearly every aspect of my professional life: not keeping in touch with collectors, delivering copy late to editors, not fulfilling publicity commitments, neglecting this blog and ignoring emails. I've delayed a long-planned trip to Japan not once but three times in three weeks. Instead, I've been holed up in my studio alone, anxious and insufferably moody. My boyfriend, who remains constant, supportive and kind, is looking worn-out from being around what he refers to, with withered patience, as "this mess".There are reasons for me being this way – there always are – but in the end, I can only think of them as excuses. I've been having problems with my ADSL access and my whizz-bang new Nokia mobile phone has turned out to be a piece of crap. I'm setting up another studio in a third world country where I speak little of the language. And I've had some difficulty – call it abject fear – getting started on a new series of very large oils on canvas. I finally broke through with the first painting last night. Everything in my world now seems better, shinier. I've been writing abject apologies and catching up with files filled with unpaid bills, unanswered invitations, logistical dilemmas and collector enquiries for most of this morning. It's only right that I should apologise here, too, to everyone who reads this blog regularly. I am sorry for not updating it for so long.