*My eyes snap open the second the alarm goes off, already I can see the calm outside, not even the wind is showing its face tonight and yet every drop of my blood is pulsing like waves crashing against my skin as if it is trying to escape. I’m ready for this. It has to be done.
Outside I feel like I’m sneaking past my mothers bed to grab the odd fag from the nightstand, my hands usually getting just within reach before a snore would send me straight back to bed. Heel, toe, heel, toe I can now see the dark eyes of the house peering down on me, is it judging me or them? Glass reflecting light between the wheels of a small bike catches my eye and for a second I almost loose my nerve. I’ve walked past this garden every night with Stanford, my brown eyed staffie watching the toys and mess grow and change. I close my eyes, picturing her scars and remind myself why I’ve got to take their dog.
*There he is again, the kind guy from next door he is always walking his little dog down here, making sure he has a peep at Bernie. He probably get’s to see Bernie more than me, daddy always says he’s not my toy.
I don’t like the way daddy and his friends play with their dogs, Bernie is always bleeding, every time he gets back. I want to make it better like my horse, all I have to do is put water on my horse and his wounds get better, why won’t he let me fix Bernie too? Maybe mr kind guy will let me play with Bernie too.
*Week after week Dom and his dog had walked past Danny Crocker’s house, watching with pain in his chest as the dog chained up outside collected scar after scar. Dom had begged for a dog for as long as he could remember, his mother had always told him he’d have no idea how to care for a dog, a fag burning away at her callas hands as she lectured him on why he wasn’t good enough to look after anything or anyone.
Finally he’d moved out, he’d moved as far away as possible but until he got Stanford he’d not spent a day without her voice ringing in his ears but tonight for the first time it felt almost as if her words might pop out of his mouth.
He’d gotten all the way to the back gate of Danny’s house when a pair of tiny hands opened it for him, whimpering and covered in blood the childs ankle was bleeding heavily. Silently sobbing the child latched on to his neighbors leg and said “Don’t tell daddy I played with his toy”.
The deep yellow of the light covered every crack in the dark leather, revealing every crease for all too see. Theo was there, his warmth visible without even being close to him. It occured to me that day that comfort wasn’t always visible. The times I had ached, when even bodies holding me up had done nothing but keep me standing. These were nothing compared to the love of someone of whom had no idea what bands I liked, or if my opinions were politically correct, no idea about anything that we all pick apart in someones personality to see if they are worthy of our time. With those eyes that never failed too understand, to crave the attention I needed to give.
Often times when emotions are off balance, I’ve been desperate to comfort when I could not and desperate not to when I could, never rationally but always unmistakably painful but to have someone around that even if its fictionally sensing every emotion. A hot water, a hug when needed, a needy stare across the room and all that Is expected back is food and care.
For some very peculiar reason someone has recorded “What Do Artists Do All Day?” on BBC FOUR- I like to think they had me in mind. However I was so excited whilst watching it to realize Cornelia Parker is the artist I have heard so much about but never caught her name. I think to not have heard of “Maybe” which will sound alot more familiar if I refer to it as Tilda Swinton asleep in a glass case for eight hours a day.
I had previously heard about this piece from Firpal but it is so interesting to hear about the way she came up with the exhibition. An exhibition brought together with relics of people no longer with us, mixed in with “Maybe”. It was so nice to see the work she is producing and the way she feels about being an artist. I have watched quite a few documentaries on certain artists including Damien Hirst and every time its felt comforting to see and relate too the uncertainty of what makes you an artist and that even established artists either went through or still feel the same.
Looking into Parker and it just keeps getting better, she’s an artist I’ve heard so much about of somehow without actually going to see her work. You will have heard of her work “Cold Dark Matter: An Exploded View” where she display a shed she had blown up.
I am planning tn trying to go see some of her work soon, it would be brilliant to get to see her work in more than pictures.
Here are some of the links I have started to look into.