The Greatest Show on Earth.

So now the whirlwind begins, the last few weeks of work before Christmas. The time of preparations and lists, of calendars and reminders. Now we gather all the objects we have been collecting for the last few months and start to toss them skywards: presents - hupla, food - hupla, decorations - hupla, wrapping - hupla, posting - hupla, travel - hupla, travel - hupla, family time - hupla, quiet time - hupla. So now we juggle with all our might so that we might create, up there in the sky, our perfect Dickensian Christmas picked out by wisps of snowfall that settle like icing sugar.

Of course, as any juggler will tell you, it's not the amount of objects that you chuck up there, it's the fact that they're all different shapes and sizes. They spin on their own axis, and react to gravity in their own special ways. This is the Christmas solar system, bodies moving to their own timescale and with their own climates that we hope to collate at one time, in one place together. This unique alignment we idealise as a natural occurrence, but know takes the skill of a cosmic billiard player to place the planets 'just so'.

In my experience Christmas tends to bring out the 'show off' in our natures, which is why I believe we tend to set fire to our objects (very tempting to put balls there) - to make the display more spectacular for the spectators and more risky for ourselves. This masochistic impulse stems from our desire that this should be a perfect time of year - an impulse, that despite the strains of 'bah humbug' that are hard wired into my DNA, I feel myself drawn to each year. 

No matter the Christmas you plan - family, friends, quiet or holiday, it must be the perfect example of it. And this is where we get into trouble. This is when keeping those flaming objects up there in the sky becomes pressured, and when that happens that is all that matters. Must keep them up, can't let them drop, higher, higher, whoah - nearly lost it then, c'mon, c'mon, just a little longer!

And then it's over, and you're left juggling and don't really know how to stop, except that to carry on seems silly. You're not sure if it was perfect, but it happened... oh.

Next year though, next year'll be perfect.

Epix.

Proper ice this morning. Thick where puddles had been previously. This is winter: sun bleached, frosty and conjured from shadow and light. This is the time of stories - tales to fill in the blanks, to comfort long nights and long journeys.

Even a quick stop in town to find plimsolls for the wife's school play becomes an odyssey - with each shop a labour to be overcome. Find the shoe section, scout for the precious object, avoid the sales reps using cunning and speed, as well as trusting to the luck of the fates.

The epic continues outside, caught on the ebb and flow of the shopping tide, steering clear of the charity collectors - sirens that call to your conscience even as time ticks down.

As the end nears, the action becomes ever more desperate, and you look in places unseen and face dangers unknown: departments stores, shoe shops, sports shops, fashion boutiques, craft stalls; until, at last, wearied and bedraggled you stumble upon a sign. A shop ending its life, its stock placed like an alms bowl for you to see - and there, in its stripped down interior, you find lying there unobtrusive to everyone else, but to you lit clear by the aura of the gods, the fleece - in sizes 7 and 9.

True this might else have been a journey of cold, of crowds and muddled and deliberately obtuse interior design; but that would be to give an authority to 'the real' that it does not deserve at this time of year. For as the days grow short pomposity and pragmatism give way to imagination and camp. So, there I was, huddled in coat and gloves, yet also afloat on my imagination - and this time didn't shout - even when battling armies of skeletons grown from dragons teeth (at least that's what I thought they were...).

Another world.

There's something about an airport that suggests an Other world.

The way the buildings seem to raise up from nowhere. The cavernous check-in and baggage drop halls with their meandering lines that snake all around even when you're the only ones in the queue - to cut under the ropes would be to break the illusion. The absurd ritual of the security check - belt, money, shoes - all into the tray. The fluorescent glow of the indoor lighting, punctuated by half hearted neon commas. The sudden move from the sealed biosphere to the refreshing chill outside, where you are greeted  by the whirring engine and the dark of night.

For the first time I found myself able to take in this moment - normally I'm focused on getting up the stairs, into the seat and ensconced therein for the flight. This time I enjoyed the view.

I wouldn't say it was a classic vista, but with the jet black of the night and the cut of the breeze there was something fascinating about the prairie of concrete that disappeared into the horizon. In the distance warning and hazard lights flashed - sky beacons for unwary planes and signals of life in the dark.

I felt myself drawn to the distance, to the idea of travel, to a landscape that was so completely alien. The sparseness, with arcane geometric runes delineating spaces and a precision flatness, unbalanced the horizon. These were no rolling hills, no jutting cliffs, nor even was this the hurly-burly of the urban grind. For a moment the minutiae of the aircraft stood out to me, and more than before this was a spacecraft - amazing in what it could achieve (an illusion repealed when it almost crashed reversing - but this was for the future), clever in details like the flex of the tails fins, and the gateway for adventure.

I found such twisted optimism important. This was a journey back from a dark place, a journey that had been about saying goodbye and being sad. Now that had been done, this was to be done.

On the flight back the lights from cities could be seen all the way as I hugged my wife. It felt good.

White noise.

Today's a bit of a white noise day. One of those days where you are awake, but it just feels like the world is wrapped in transparent cotton wool, so you can see it and interact with it, but you don't feel right there - you know? Behind your thoughts is the buzzing of distraction that prevents thoughts flowing properly. These are days when you hope you can function on autopilot. So I apologise in advance if the words get out of control today.

It's almost as if the world is a copy of itself, exact in every way, but there's a distance about the scenery and all the daily actions seem removed. Baudrillard would've been in his element - or should that be the image of an image of an image of his element? There are times when I wonder if simulacrum is just the philosophical justification of a hangover?

The starkness of the trees now, many bereft of their leaves, adds to this sense of strangeness; a landscape terraformed, pared down to essentials and covered with shades of grey. The landscape has turned alien, bleached by the few hours of sunlight that attack with the intensity of the time limited. What is left takes on a general droopiness, a sense of the forlorn and weary.

These are days to use the whole palette of grey - from frosted silvers through to the bluest black: to see the dying green reflected in the functional concrete; the silver moss that wraps the umber trees; the blend of metal and stone upon the floor of the tracks; and the draining of the pinks and yellows from flesh leaving the streaks of white that lie in the grains of our bodies - Lucien Freud would have loved it.

But use them quickly, for as the day begins, so it scampers away and we are left with a blackness that is more complete than the rest of the year, one that warps time - convincing you that midnight has arrived at five and that the day doesn't begin till noon. This is why we look to candles, to glittering baubles, to fires and to splashes of colour; to burst through the dark, to remind us of the day and the spring, and to bring us together for warmth.

Bells shiver our spines, the clarity of soprano and tenor voices send us skyward, but the comfort of the bases and the altos brings us back to the hearth. This is the season for harmonies, to embrace the year end, reflect of what it has brought us and remind us of what is to come.

Chill!

Late today. I was waiting for someone to arrive to fix the cooker, who is late, so I am held up, which means I have to leave my wife to deal with it, so she'll probably be late for what she has to do. The stress factors seem to be ratcheting up along the chain of time pressure - and one of us is sure to blow soon. Probably me, but being me this will be at an inappropriate time or place - very likely to myself in my head.

So I'm sitting here on the train, hurtling towards work - hoping I'll make it in time, my mind cross-referencing all the details from this morning, trying to work out how all this can be fixed, or alternately how all to could have been prevented - or in other words, trying to find someone to blame.

This act invariably stems from the nagging suspicion at the back of my mind that it is my fault - either in the arrangement, or the practice of the events that have occurred, which in turn increases my frustration and anger - grrrr!

So today I am writing fast, hoping that energy on the keypad will replace anger in my stomach and spine. The number of typos today exceeds my normal stratospheric amount, as my care is replaced by a desire to burn words on the page (screen!), and exorcise the emotion building up.

I look back over this post and think "Sheeesh!", knowing that I need to put all this in perspective, and realise that disasters aren't always my fault - indeed in this case the issue is definitely someone else's as it turns out, but that doesn't stop me putting myself through all the possibilities first.

This whole circus is the result of a utopian idea about time and punctuality, one fostered by the Fordian ideal of capitalism, which runs on this idea of measurable and plan-able units for the world to work to. The trouble is this sort of planning can't account for the impact of cause and effect when disaster or mishap strikes. Yet I find I have been trained to think, to feel the world can be organised to a schedule, that I can find my space within this schedule if I am disciplined and focused I can do this, then that, and still have time to relax here... on Thursday... for thirty minutes... Does anyone else see a problem here?

Wilderness.

The blog's been quiet for a few days now, wasn't sure what to put after the last one...

I feel tired today, my tolerance is wearing thin with people. It's as if a new task is there to hinder or frustrate me. Even the painting seems tiring - though I still keep going, still have ideas and still enjoy it in bursts. I just find that I am unable to sustain the concentration as long as I used. I get to a point and can feel a silly mistake coming on, or find myself focusing into the middle distances (which in this case is beyond a flat magnolia wall - hardly magic eye central), so I stop for a bit and then a bit more, then I go back and berate myself for a lack of productivity.

Do I just need to take a 'meh' day, a day of nothing? If so how will I know that I can get myself up again? Why do I need some kind of assurance, why do I distrust my own capacity so much? Other people work and rest - the two things should be complementary, not locked in a perpetual battle with each other. Quite frankly I want to see my manual, cos' I'm pretty sure there's a part missing, or a valve that's gone or something. 

Don't get me wrong I've done some decent stuff this week, but finished little. I just feel like I could've done a lot more - that I need to do a lot more. Somewhere in my mind productivity equals worth I guess.

Normally at this point I start to witted on about changes in view point, or ways to confront the world - yay! But I feel a bit too knackered to slay dragons today; I don't want to charge at the world, I'd like to stay and look after the pigs today - smelly and menial true, but its warm and at least you get good bacon afterwards.

However I'm not allowed to just stay in bed for the day - I have things to do, and do them I must. So my choice is give in to this creeping sense of failure; or have some coffee, eat something, yawn - a lot! and wedge myself into the day and wriggle till I fit.

A Moment of Silence.

I don't know how to write this today - or if I'll even publish it. My Granny (she was particular about the title) passed away yesterday. My Mum was with her, and I'm not quite sure how I should respond.

I'm sad, of course, and upset; I feel for my Mum, who may have had a sometimes difficult relationship with her, but clearly loved her and feels her parting keenly, and my Aunt; but I tend to be very English at times like these (not a complement by the way), I tend to get my head down and carry on - not out of duty or stoicism, but more to do with a sense of awkwardness.

This is not the place for a discussion of Granny's life and person, nor do I have the right to discuss her. She was my Granny, I loved her and I owe her for parts of myself and my Mother. This is a place where I can reflect on the effect and affect of passing-on. It is a reminder of mortality, of what we make of our lives; of how we choose to live and to use our lives. Regardless of faith, we are mortal, regardless of how tired we get, we eventually run out; how then can we finish our races knowing we have not spent too long resting?

Today I find there are a lot of questions I can't answer. I can provide platitudes and truisms, but I am no priest, no wise man. I painted an image that stuck with me last night; it is raw, unrefined, and seeks more than it finds. Maybe in transforming it from a sketch to a painting I'll find more; but for now it is a stone cast into the pond and I wait for ripples to spread outward.

This is all I can offer today. The quiet, the reflection - a moment of memory, of silence.

Chuffed... Uh-oh.

I'm really chuffed with a painting I've completed. Annoyingly so. I feel that it brings together a load of qualities, and just, well, works. I'm conscious however of feeling good about it; and I'm more worried that I'm happy with the work I'm producing - in many different styles true, but each seems to work in its genre, and has something of me it in - be that scrutiny, exuberance, or even absurdity.

Now I'll let you debate the quality of the stuff (but it's good... right?), what troubles me is the sense of feeling pride, and I also worry that I suffer from artistic amnesia. You what? By that I mean the sense that the latest work encapsulates the best of you, achieves the apex of your talent, voice, whatever; and through this gush of pride, of hope, of euphoria you forget any previous Eureka moments. You blot out successes and failures, disappointments and hubris, in order to invest energy in this present project. In other words the nagging sense that: yes I really like this, I am right aren't I?

Immediately that I'm happy with an artistic decision comes the wave of 'are you sure?' The insidious drop of water on my ice sculpture that etches itself through the confidence and joy of completing a work, and feeling satisfied. The result of this psychological glacier is that I feel the need to broadcast my feelings of satisfaction ad nauseum - you know, just to make sure.

This is coupled with the other problem; just because I'm happy with the work doesn't mean it will draw other people in, through the tractor beam of artistic purity, to my house so they can look and appreciate it. I mean it should, but alas it doesn't work that way, as I found out to my eternal disappointment as a child. So I have to show the work somewhere - online, on a wall, somewhere. Which means I can't shut up about it, I have to put it out there - a task for which modesty a d doubt did to get past the application process.

So here I am, selling, promoting or whoring - whatever you want to call it! But the thing is, I am pleased with the painting, it makes me laugh, and it is dramatic and well constructed and executed, and it makes me excited and scared to do more. So I feel good about me, which I need sometimes. Sorry, I guess you'll hear more from me after all.

Old film.

I've just had one of those bleached sun moments. The ones where the train turns the corner, and the sun angles into your right shoulder, flushing your eyes with screaming white light, and as you come out the world etches into focus with lines of perspective exposing through the light and briefly you see the world being born.

These moments have the sense of old 16mm movies; old home movies, soundless snapshots of family intimacy with spots and jumps in the film. This gives the world a nostalgia, a feeling of childhood about the way the fingers of the trees poke gloveless to the sky, and comes with a sense of hope and loss - something about the the way we were.

This is a sense that will mean different things to many people: my wife  and brother would say very different things about nostalgia - one rose tinted, the other black and white. To me the light both exposes and blinds, but it is those things that drift back into focus after this visual 'reset' that make the difference. These are the lines of direction, of depth, that help you navigate where to put the next foot on the path, that help you judge the distance between here and there, that let you move with purpose.

To me the lines that appear are the ones of connection, the ones that reveal people I care about and who care about me. These are the lines of composition if you will, the ones that hold the whole image together. Some are bold strokes that intersect the page, others divide the space between the lines, others are quieter lines - sketch lines that guide the force of the focal point, and others still join the scaffold together so that the vastness of the space around doesn't overwhelm.

In art - and mathematics, there is the idea of the 'golden section' or the 'golden ratio', this is the idea that beauty can be judged by its correlation to this perfection in composition. It has been statistically applied to art works - and is all over the renaissance. My family and relationships have never been that simple to describe, and this composition finds its own internal logic - a (dis)harmony of the spheres if you like. So it's maybe not golden - maybe it's wood, but the wood has been carved with the grain, and now it seems to be winking.

Fuck Dorian Gray!

Ill. I feel ill. This I don't do, this is not something that is acceptable in my life - it is inconvenient, it is problematic, it is 'Arraaaargh'!

I have a constant headache and feel inclined to sleep longer than normal, my temper is more tetchy, and my concentration is less... what was I saying? oh yes, constant. This is annoying as in order to do my job I keep my energy for that so I feel my 'real' work suffers - hence the gaps in the blog this week, and the reason my progress over my latest artwork has drifted (though I am quite chuffed with this one - and at this rate it might even be on the site by the time this post is up!).

Now while this might sound like traditional 'man flu' moaning, please bare in mind I don't do days off, or accept illness as an excuse for myself to be a bit crap - I should, but I don't. Maybe this is a psychological thing (maybe - it totally is!), and that for me being ill is weakness, and it is my awareness of my own under performance (as a person, as an artist, as a general human being) that pisses me off about the whole situation.

I guess all this goes back to my earlier posts about feeling good enough, or deserving in some way, and if I'm ill and can't paint or write enough I feel like a fraud for not putting in the time. I also worry that my inner sloth might get comfortable in my skin and not push me to produce work of enough quality or quantity. I realise I am scared of who I am!

It's like there's a Me staring back, my own portrait of Dorian Gray; this portrait has all the signs of my inner weaknesses: it is lazy, it is selfish, it is indolent and cruel, it's visage twisted into a soulless smirk and sneer. I recognise this figure, though others may not, and I feel it's breath on my shoulder when I cannot or do not live up to my own standards. This is my insecurity, this is my pursuer and it is this vision that plagues my illness with what I may let out.

So clearly this is not another example of male melodrama when faced with a cold. No, it is a Victorian gothic novel of immense sig... oh. Ahem.

You know what? Maybe I should just give myself a break sometimes - pass the tissues.