I wanted to show work this year. I gave myself a few months to put aside the silver, turn down commissions and planned to kill two birds with one stone as I worked to sure up the integrity I spend doing the money-whoring work of making jewellery and then plugging the ever loving shit out of it - and I wanted to see where I am with painting, given that it's been so long since I gave myself the time and space to just do it with all the fuck ups, fumbles and wrong turns I've got to make before I find that woody, shaded path to something good.
I've been treating paint like a cup of coffee after knocking out an email; a quick, unproductive fistful of minutes grabbed before I feel too guilty that I've not responded to the orders or queries growing mouldy in my inbox.
It doesn't bear mentioning why this year was unusual and I'm not special in finding myself with changed plans.
I didn't churn out a wonderfully tight, new, cohesive body of work. There's a small sculpture that has stalled and remained at 95% complete for a few months. I do however have something to show for the year.
I've got a lot of eggs. The great joke I didn't realise I was playing on myself in working on these is that the ones in my body are in dwindling supply. 'Nothing funnier than an egg that can't keep itself safe' was the running theme from a 35 year old woman in quarantine with ageing ovaries and absolutely zero self awareness.
I'd like to share them before I tear off in another direction and no longer recognise it as my own anymore.
"Don't worry, everyone does it.
32" x 32", oil and ink on linen
The finite supply of reckless eggs
32" x 32", oil and ink on linen
The version of "The Day We Stole the Moon" that I was picturing with my first attempt at making this picture. The monochrome gouache on claybord iteration is closer to correct.
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