In the studio, I have just destroyed a spiders nest from the spine of my Sophie Calle Appointment with Sigmund Freud book. A perfect silken egg sack and mother spider guarding it. I tried to remove it carefully with a kitchen knife, the mother spider looking on. I did feel very bad. She jumped with fright after I sliced off the egg sack. I was trying to save mother and babies, it probably didn’t work, but who knows they may survive. They may.

There are shadows. The sun casts long shadows on our bodies in the morning light. We haven’t walked to school, I bundled a tired you in and out of the car. Your tired from sports day and gardening last night and perpetually battling with the inability to settle down to sleep in the evenings. Maybe you are just a night owl. A morning snoozer and an evening party maker.

Syd was grumpy and moody and teenage this morning, but then he is a teenager. Almost fourteen now. Fourteen years of him and me. Twelve  years of him, me and Patrick. Six years of him, me, Patrick and Naoise. We are family. A perfectly modern family. Two sons. Two dads. One failed relationship, one on-going one. A mother and a step parent, muddling by, doing our best, making it up as we go along.

There are shadows. There are shadows of the past that creep into the present. There are insecurities. There is the insecurity of work. The insecurity of a threatened work place. There  are unknowns. There are many unknowns. There is a summer that I feel I haven’t grasped a hold of yet. There are hills to run on, lambs that have become fat. There is grass that grows long in the summer heat and light. The nettles and weeds crawl up to meet the height of the sun.


There are beginnings and endings. There is always being a mother. There is never a clock in and a clock out. There was always this and there always will be. Birth, Death and in-between in the crevices of the stone walls the plants grow the people live, love and connect to each with a hand or with the roots to the soil.

There are shadows in my mind that make me scream. There are memories that hold fast, others that are pushed under and creep behind me. There is a dog barking. I open the window to let life in. The sounds of the street, people talking. Then nothing, Nothing but the sound of a car door opening or closing.

There are shadows. There are swallows swooping low to catch midges on the wing. I imagine a picnic at The Bridestones, watching the sun coming down, drinking sparkling wine, the children playing and happy. This is now. This could be now. Maybe Friday. Or a barbecue on the allotment. Time moves, it never stops. I feel the summer slipping through my hands. Slipping through my sorting and tidying and chucking away.

I havent a plan for the open studios. I have an empty pram. I need to print out some images, something of what I have been doing NOW. I wonder if I should just write, write on the wall, on big bits of paper, just spill out what is in my mind. A durational performance. Perhaps this would be most suited. I need to push the pram up the hill to Heptonstall, I need to visit Sylvia’s bones.

I love this space. This light, airy, uplifting space. A studio that I call home. Could this room be anywhere?

Patrick phone call: Nice to hear his thoughts, but flow interrupted.

I have not been able to concentrate, to settle at any one thing. I should have done so much more. Could of should have. Wanted to. I need to write lists, tick things off. I need short term and long term goals. I need to stop dilly dallying. What is the point of all this? What is the point of art? Art to sustain the self. Art to sort our and tidy up life. Art to make life manageable. Art to find the joy in the unexpected. Art. There is Art. Art is not simply a commodity. If art is not for sale then how is it manageable. What is it that I need to sell.  Why am I not comfortable with the transaction. The transaction of production= commodity. Its no good to fight it when this is the system that you have been given. There is labour. There is work. There is a measurement of time. There is a life. Perhaps this is simply egotistical naval gazing. How is this my lifes work? Art/Motherhood. Womanhood.

The buzzer on my mobile phone sounds.

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