Full to the brim

6.47am

Awake since 6am. Cannot settle at all. Weighed myself, not surprisingly I have put on a little weight if you eat cheese and cake and bread and drink alcohol and you don’t exercise this is to be expected. I had a day of comfort feasting. When the mind is famished I turn to food and alcohol for comfort.

When I woke, I turned to Naoise who was lying beside me sucking his thumb, drawing in breath, moving saliva around his thumb with his tongue.

Drink coffee.

I don’t want to speak to anyone first thing. Its good to slip into consciousness. I requested that Patrick remain sleeping in bed and that he did not come downstairs and do the washing up as I needed some time on my own. I needed to complete this task. All this writing itself can feel like a burden. It interferes in the practical goings on of the day. It creates a stop as well as a start.

Yesterday I looked at a new studio space, but it was taken before I could organise the place for myself and friends. It was a perfect light space by the canal, within walking distance of home. Never mind. I will find a new place to be. Maybe that place is here at home at this dinning table. My worry is all the stuff that I have and the restrictions that not having a studio places on the artist. If I loose my work space, then  I will only be able to work small, make drawings, write, take photographs. This house is a squash and a squeeze,  full to the brim with bikes and toys and books and belongings. There is no spare space, no spare room, theres only just enough room for us. There is no room for art in this house.

I have invented new strategies and ways of working without a studio. The whole home becomes a place of making. A domestic studio. Home= Studio. Studio not in the traditional sense. Its about re-ordering how I make. Back to the family as material for arts practice. Back to how to deal with no studio space as a creative problematic for making. How to think about the home as an extension of my body, of me.

There can be a small desk space where the cot is. The cot that is piled high with Syd’s out grown clothes. Bags of clothes that cannot remain stored in this little house as there isn’t a cupboard to place them. We are full. There isn’t a nook or cranny left to place anything.  Absolutely crammed in.

You can bounce a ball in the yard but no kicking less the ball falls over the wall into the river below.

Make small discrete movements, walk carefully down the tight enclosed stairwell.

Beep beep beep beep

I am glad for the sound of the oven clock…….telling me its time to stop this writing and to start the day.

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