This post ties in so neatly with the last.
As mentioned, as if by magic, John suddenly appeared and I’d previously been enjoying one of those perfect moments when your day couldn’t get any brighter and then it does, which having been in hospital so may times in the last 6 years is no surprise to me now. The great thing about hospital is you always see someone who is worse off than you.
I hadn’t slept properly in weeks and was feeling dreadful that morning. I dosed myself up on every possible Jollop the Doc’s have handed out and hoped I’d pass out on the sofa for at least a couple of hours. No Joy.
Only one thing for it. Netflix.
I started watching The Final Portrait with Geoffrey Rush. I’ve loved every film he’s been in, this one included but I couldn’t settle and I thought ‘Why am I sat here,watching a guy paint, when I could be painting? Bleedin’ moron.
I’d lost track of time days ago and was pleased to notice it was only about 10am. My wife was at work until about 2pm and the latest issue of a magazine I publish had gone to press! Perfect.
I made a coffee, got some music playing and set myself up at the kitchen table.
I’d been wanting to do a portrait of a black lady only using Burnt Umber, French Ultramarine and Titanium white. I’d started it and was very happy with it. It was shit, but I expected it to be a complete disaster.
So now, this morning, feeling incredibly sleep deprived, beaten up but strangely happy, I upped the ante and had a joint. Very early indeed for that kind of malarkey young man.
That side, it hit the spot. Whilst standing out in the sunshine pondering where to start, in a flash the whole mental image changed into something incredibly bright, evocative that felt hot.
In the few short steps from my front door to the kitchen table I convinced myself that I had all the time in the world and all the paint in the world, just enjoy doing it, not the end result. And I did just that.