I've had a day of dealing with a lot of the dumb, annoying shit that too often discourages me from thinking of art as a serious career for any right thinking adult: dates lost for an Asian show because some assistant manager trying to do a favour for a friend 'forgot' that I'd reserved the venue, a much-needed and long-overdue order undelivered because the supplier had 'car trouble', a commercial deal gone bad because the basic budget just wasn't there. I figured I'd have a long lunch and maybe a few glasses of red wine to get over the aggravation but it was Monday and the restaurants I wanted to go to were closed – a Sydney thing – so I was home when a corporate curator rang to tell me that a big money commission for an enamel painting had been cancelled, the victim of faux-austerity on the part of a client whose investments in US real estate had gone belly up in the sub-prime mortgage crisis. I decided to give the painting away as a gift to a couple who have collected the best of my work for the past few years and who would prize it far beyond the five-figure valuation the insurance company put on it. "Gotta launder my karma," as the song goes.
I'm not going to pick up the phone tomorrow. Instead, I might lie naked in the sun on the back lawn, gaze at the deep blue Pacific and sing along to old Van Morrison tunes played really loud on the stereo:When it's not always raining there'll be days like this
When there's no one complaining there'll be days like this
When everything falls into place like the flick of a switch
Well my mama told me there'll be days like this