Recently, for the first time in years I have been constantly busy, scrambling to keep up with all the modules of my Visual Art degree as well as my blog and my artwork. I am not doing too badly and I am enjoying it but sometimes I am aware that I need to take more time to just stop.
This week I hung a mini exhibition of my paintings, I am working on a joint presentation on feminist criticism on the work of Sarah Lucas (neither of which I knew anything about two weeks ago), I have been splattered with ‘blood’ in a classmates re-make of the ‘chest buster’ scene from Alien and have shot and edited my own scene from the American Office. Some part of my brain is trying to devise a live art piece and a possible costume for it.
On the ‘relaxing’ side of things I am indulging myself in Michael Smiths new biography of my hero Ernest Shackleton. I am also working out, running and have joined a spinning class. And of course last week I murdered Little Bobby.
Yesterday afternoon, after tussling with the Harvard Referencing system, I contemplated the ‘long run’ I had planned for today and I sat down in the chair and looked out at the afternoon sky.
It was not a spectacular day. It was an ordinary day in February, neither here nor there. Neither Spring nor Winter, but sometimes in the ordinary that the magic resides. Maybe it is because such days do not push themselves upon us. They allow us to drift to other realms. Or maybe they loosen us from the bonds of enthusiasm for action…
‘It’s so sunny!we must go out!’
‘Its snowing!’we must build a snow man!’
On an ordinary day we don’t have to do a damn thing.
The clouds were ragged and dark grey against a western sky bright and tinged with gold even as the day faded. I could hear the cold wind from the north combing the roof and feel it in the draughts around the windows and doors. To the east the sea would become a solid block of cobalt in the dusk. For a little while the headland, patched green on deep rust red would look as if stitched onto the rich blue-grey stuff of the sea and perhaps the brake lights of some fisherman’s car would glimmer ruby-like in its folds at the tiny slipway on the other side of the bay. As the wind died, as it often does around sunset, the light from the Hook lighthouse in Wexford would begin to flash..
As the twilight grew I felt the tiredness in my bones and without thinking I was in the moment and in every moment of every ordinary day ever and nothing mattered that much and without looking I knew the fisherman had gone from the opposite headland, up the muddy, rutted path to home and I felt, without seeing, the light fading and the wind dying and then the rain came.