22 August 2023

Tomorrow, I fly to Dublin, via Abu Dhabi. Time above ground and sea…to wonder, resist, salivate, summon, conjure, wrestle, snore. Almost 24 hours between here and there. For two months of art practice. A summary perhaps.

Ireland again. Post-covid (is that right?), and yet, and yet, anticipation is like a drumming rain. I load up with hand cream, melatonin, vitamins, compression socks, water bottle, laptop, aspirin, cords, plugs, spare underwear, the ubiquitous smart-phone, a meditation tool that measures HRV, a kindle with many downloaded books, the LRB newspaper, money, three coats, tissues, eye mask, face mask, diary and a list of what I have forgotten. I imagine an exorbitant amount for excess luggage at the airport (after I was unable to pay excess online), and an argument with an officious teller to allow my viola on board.

Twelve months – or more – of anticipation, amidst the mires of living. Anticipation towards suspension and re-imaginings. Renewal? Invigoration?

What is the artist’s imagined life? Attending, submerging, faltering; marks, echoes, filters, roots, branches, hum, flame, ash.

And next? Conversations, over meals on the plane, in the throbbing middle-eastern airport, in a Dublin cab. Numbing adrenaline in turbulence.

Yet, I go. Therefore, I create.