Thursday, July 19, 2012
It's no secret that I hate Brisbane.I hate its torrid weather. I hate the angular drawl of its inhabitants and their near-enough-is-good-enough attitude. I hate their overwhelming sense of self-entitlement. Everyone harbours the smug certainty that Brisbane – and nowhere else – is the real embodiment of the Australian Dream.Oh, and I hate the lack of art supply shops (and the lack of art).I'm itching to leave but for the next few months, I can't. I have several commissions to finish and a series of new works to get started. I have to rebuild my health. As badly as I want to be eslewhere, my best course of action is to stick it out here.My life right now is monk-like, an extended period of solitude and confinement. I sleep in a single bed, in a room in my late father's house where I also work. I don't go out. I don't fuck. I don't even speak to anyone often. When I do, it's to collectors who are scattered around the world. Every evening, I walk to and from a women-only gym. Four days a week, I walk to and from my enamel studio, a few miles away. Walking rests my eyes and clears my lungs. Twenty-four hours a week is the most I can handle of my studio's carcinogenic, acrid fumes.I have enough supplies (ordered from wholesalers in the USA) to finish my commissions. By the time I run out, I'll have accomplished enough to be able to take the time I need to move overseas. In the coming weeks – when work at my studio has progressed further – I'll begin travelling again and interacting with the art world. I miss the life I used to lead but I am reasonably content. My work is progressing and that's the most important thing to me. I long to live in a place I might love – just as I long for a (ir)regular sex life – but in the end, what I'm doing with my art is a lot more compelling than where I'm doing it.