Skin and snow drops

8.00am

Skin all porous, breathing, scaring, encasing our bodies, protecting, a thin barrier against a cruel world. Always war, always. Always love, always.

Snow drops, such brave little flowers, the first to push through. Heads of white bells. The orchard in my dream house was full of them. I would dance between the frost and the white and wish the spring sooner.

He has completely turned ninety degrees in the bed, his legs and feet lie across my body. He is resting and softly breathing. At the dinner table he blew out the candle for Syd. When it is just me, him and his dad he plays with the magic of threes. The undivided attention.

The new Whitworth Art Gallery is beautiful, all air and light and art. A political strength present in the talks. Creative people speaking out against the poor, the working class, global warming, the threat to our planet, human existence. Clapping. Comradery. Passion.

I wore the green wool dress, back tights, red leather shoes, blue earrings, a wash of lipstick. I felt great. Walking out on pavement stones and through the vibrant city, looking and looking at all the people. Couples celebrating valentine. People waiting to meet lovers with bunches of flowers.

Jeanette Winterson announcing her engagement to Susie Orbach.

Feeling confident to ask a question to Cornelia Parker, especially after making a connection in the toilet que! What is the relationship between your photographs and your sculptural practice ? Not sure that it was answered. What is different between capturing and recording an image and making a reproduction of something real, physical? The cracks in the pavement, the negative in-betweens. The photograph a positive, light captured in pixels or film. I was drawn to two photographs that sat side by side. Oil Stain (Bethlehem), Milk Stain (Jerusalem)2012-1013. What is it that I thought as I looked at these ? Stains, blood, food and oil to sustain life, politics, divided people. Is this what she was thinking too ? She mentioned the Jeruslalem Syndrome in regards to the works. Art asks questions ? Sometimes there are no answers just more questions.

I loved the title of the Sarah Lucas installation Tits in Space. I wonder if Spilt Milk is strong enough a title for an exhibition.

My feet are sore, all covered in blisters, the shoes were not practical for walking miles in the city. I noticed kisses and chewing gum stuck on pavements. I remembered the passionate kiss with a boyfriend  I loved when I was 17. We kissed by the derelict building in the northern quarter which is now luxury flats. I wonder where he is now, what he does, how many children he has. I will never forget the excitement of that kiss. I noticed the evidence of people sleeping rough. I past two sleepers sheltering in bags under the railway arches on Oxford Road, I just walked by. Am I sleep walking through life. What to do ? What to do?

 

 

 

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