Monday, 21 December 2009

I Can Talk. I Am Alive. Day One Of The Rest Of My Life

www.antoniarolls.co.uk for my website
www.agracefuldeath.blogspot.com for the website for the A Graceful Death exhibition coming to London in February
antonia.rolls1@btinternet.com to email me

So, I Am Alive, And I Can Speak

And Breathe. My cold, bless it, is on its way out. I lost my voice last week and though I sounded really good, it was difficult to understand me. I thought that made me enigmatic, but others thought it made me irritating. They told me to Write It Down, For Goodnessakes.

So, in the studio as a Speaking Member Of The Human Race, but not yet a cycling one. I am feeling very wobbly (too much cake while ill, I hear you chortle. Not that kind of wobbly I reply huffily. I am weak, I am if anything, underfed. And I toss my brown locks and say Harumph.). There is much work to be done. I have agreed to paint a quick Angel for my lovely teeny guest who is only just 5' tall, and often comes to stay. She is in her mid twenties now, and my first meeting with her was when she was 8 years old and having a screaming temper tantrum on her mother's dining room table. Her older sister is even teenier. She is not even 4'10". I tried to give this sister driving lessons once, and absolutely nothing we did could make her feet reach the pedals. Amazing.

I am, as I say, doing an Angel for my eensy teeny weeny guest, and that will take up this afternoon, while she goes into town and has her next tattoo done. Creativity on all fronts. 16 Year Old Son, who is great friends with teeny guest, has gone with her. He is not allowed a tattoo, though he really wants one. What the tiny friend lacks in height she makes up for in volume and sense of rightness. She will bite his knees rather than allow him to talk his way into getting a page from Dostoyevsky tattooed onto his leg. 16 Year Old Son is 6'2" and so tiny tattooed friend can only get his knees.

13 Year Old Son is mourning the loss of his hamsters. Both died, one after the other, a few days ago. They were dwarf hamsters and looked like tiny fluffy punctuation marks. He, Son, was devastated and managed to save one of them for an few extra hours by holding it in his hand, and giving it sunflower seeds and weeping onto it. This Is Good, thought the hamster, I'll Hold On. But yesterday, the funeral took place. A hole about 8' deep was dug in the middle of my lawn and both hamsters were placed into the hole, both fitting into a small popcorn box, and buried. Here am I doing an exhibition on death and dying, on bereavement and coming through it, and my 13 Year Old Son tests me with the deaths of his two fluffy dwarf hamsters. Lucky I remembered that grief can take hold of any of us about any kind of loss. So I was very quiet about the garden looking like a combine harvester has rumbled across it, and listened to his memories of Happy Times With The Hamsters.

Today then, I am painting an Angel. In January, I am painting my still life for someone who has waited a while for it. In February the A Graceful Death goes to London. In February I visit the next venue for A Graceful Death in the Midlands. In between I begin to paint portraits, really good perceptive and strong portraits. Oh , and in January I hope to meet some NHS people who are interested in the A Graceful Death exhibition.

Ha. Tiny friend and 16 Year Old Son are back. One is tatooed, one is not. Which one is which, is the question now.

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