…I would want it to look like this. My sister pointed me in the direction of this illustrator’s delicious work and it’s so vibrant and colourful, I want the world to look like this. If you haven’t already picked up on my subtle clues, I love my sister very much. I have known her since she was floating in our mother’s stomach and I thank the stars every night that she chose to be my sister, my little brave daisy waving to me from the garden of our shared life. This year, in my birthday card, she wrote: “I love you more than you could ever imagine. My life would never have been so good without you holding my hand along the way. So now it’s my turn, and I’ll never let go…” I think what upsets me the most about our father being such a fool (and I want to write ****, but that’s my angry teenage self trying to get some airtime) is that he doesn’t know my sister. He is missing out on so much…
Over the last few days we’ve been talking a lot about blogs as she’s thinking about setting up her own, as a way to get the creative juices flowing in the right direction. I think this is a marvelous idea and am encouraging her in true pushy-big-sister style! How I wish I could paint what I see in my head like she does. I paint with words - always have done - but oh, how I want to scoop up handfuls of paint and smear it over the walls. To surround myself with Pollock-esque splatters and Dali dreams. I love words, I love stringing them together, letting them run over the page, crawl up my arm and whisper in my ear, but sometimes a black and white page just doesn’t cut it. Of course the irony is I did go to art college - i can life draw with the best of them! - but my sketch books were always so dry, my paintings so contrived. I think it’s very indicative of me that I write my journals in large Moleskine notebooks, serious hard black covers concealing tear splats and scribblings. I let the colour run riot in my home instead - creaking antiques next to a Tretchikoff print; red lamps by yellow sixties decanters; chocolate silk cushions against a blood-red throw. And books - have I mentioned the books? Piles and shelves and Eiffel Towers of them, so many I have to wonder if they are the ballast keeping me on the planet.
But I digress. This evening I’m simply frustrated. I want to finish this article and file it. I want to have time to get on with TB. I want to paint like Abigail; I want to rip off my clothes and run in the streets. Just as the skin on your arm itches when the cast that has supported your broken limb is due to come off, I think I too am healing. Maybe I should buy a sketchbook and see what happens... I’m still scared to go outside, but I’m starting to think it might be fun to be in that Technicolor garden.
** Sending love to Deirdre **
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