M-m-m-My Corona part 12. Doorbells & Doorknobs.

 Today was teeth day, having completed five sides of a pre-visit questionnaire before attending, and remembering the instruction not to touch the doorbell on arrival as they would come out to receive me, hand sanitizers locked and loaded

There are no waiting rooms in the new normal. Once inside, I took up position on the hallway tiles designated spot for my temperature check, involving a strange Star Trek device which apparently gleans all the information it requires from shooting a beam of light two meters from my forehead. It informed me my temperature is slightly low, but it didn’t prevent me from being able to move on and into the treatment room; the one which never lives up to its name as there are never ever any treats.

Somewhere beneath all the hulking layers of protective plastic stood the dentist I’ve known since 1975, and her assistant. It was impossible to distinguish which was which, or to interpret what their masked voices were saying. They resembled dastardly scientists from a 1950s sci-fi movie, eager to strap me down and set to with the neatly arranged instruments close by. And what if it wasn’t my actual dentist at all? Bracing myself for whatever fate had in store, I mounted The Chair and opened wide…

Happily, my check-up was completed with efficiency and speed, (I have the best dentist), and I even remembered to exit without touching those doorknobs. Nevertheless, on arriving home I still considered immersing my entire body in a bath tub of hand sanitiser, just as a precaution you understand.

I don’t think I’m ready to risk the pub quite yet.

All text copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

 

M-m-m My #Corona Part 5.

 I’ve just realised what’s been nagging me: No vapour trails. Normally there is a steady flow of on-high airliners destined for East Midlands Airport. Far too high to be a disturbance; just a constant and familiar presence in a sky now unbroken blue.

This morning Twitter is telling me “He is risen”. I hope he’s brought toilet rolls and hand sanitizers with him. I was christened and confirmed at all the appropriate ages, but soon grew curious about a faith system which portrays their hero as a strikingly handsome white man, often with blonde hair and blue eyes. But one could never get a sensible answer about such things. It would be like asking Cadbury’s which is their favourite chocolate. I did enjoy going to Sunday school though. I liked the Church of England stamp albums we were issued, and the beautifully illustrated attendance stamps, encouraging us not to miss a week. No child likes an empty space in their stamp album. And I am rather partial to an Easter egg or two.

 All text, pros, poetry & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

 

Just stop.

 

December 2019. I returned to writing / editing “my intended novel” with the best of intentions. The plan was to use the dark nights, not best suited to painting, for writing. At first all was well, but distractions soon set in. Some business, some personal. Whatever. So, I stopped. I just stopped.

Stopped thinking about writing; stopped thinking about painting and galleries; stopped thinking about social engagements that felt now more like appointments; stopped the delusion that social media was of any value in promoting my work. Stopped, and took a little time to think through what it is I want to do, and what the deadline might be. It’s difficult to explain, but considering how much time I spend in my own company, I never think I have a peaceful life. It always seems so cluttered.

So, I have begun clearing the clutter. Gradually I have started to get a clearer perspective on things. I look forward to 2020. I’m hoping there will be less cake and more sunshine.

 All text, pros, poetry, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

if a picture paints a thousand words.

 

 All text, pros, poetry, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

Closure on those "blue remembered hills"?

 Thoresby Park dominated much of the month. Firstly, the photographs I sorted out for them at their request, for an intended exhibition / publication, were enthusiastically received. I also received a request from a “Ploughing Competition” event being held there to use some pictures from my Thoresby blog for a display. I of course agreed.

Secondly, two of my artworks were hung there in this year’s Open Exhibition, although I have to confess the gallery there is not what it once was.

Thirdly, and importantly, I attended their Heritage Day event, which proved to be quite a revelation. I had always thought the estate’s status effectively ended with the death of Lady Rozelle, the last of the Manvers family line, but not so. She had sought out a distant descendant of the Pierrepont's, and it is he who now lives in the large purpose-built mansion I used to observe from the far side of the lake, and which now harbours several artefacts from the Hall.

At the end of the tour I gained permission to walk around the outside of the Woodyard and take some photographs, Permission I was soon in need of when a security van pulled up to ask me what I was doing! It meant a lot to be able to do that one last time. Box ticked. Closure?
 

 All text, pros, poetry, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

House and home and a neighbour's opinion.

 

New curtains for bedroom and lounge.
Two new chairs for lounge.
New bed.
New rugs.
Re-arranged paintings through the house.
Clean and tidy.

I think I'm settling back in, reclaiming my house. Lots of things are still in boxes since my attempted house move of a couple of years ago. Lots of things I disposed of have never been replaced. (I have one office chair in the lounge to sit on). At present I paint most days. Finding it difficult, as always, but the recent sale boosted motivation. I must take care not to miss out on Summer this year, being stuck inside here. 

A few days ago, I showed my neighbour my latest painting. She’s an old woman, totally content with her life of “Corrie” (a UK TV soap), brandy, and football, none of which I could begin to hold a conversation about, but we manage. She’s always easily impressed with my paintings, pleased I show them to her, and this particular time was no exception. However, as I was walking away, she said “What are you going to do with it now?”

THAT is what I call a reality check.

All text, pros, poetry, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

Power of Attorney.

 

Suffice to say, it took a toll...

All text, pros, poetry, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

Stopping Distance.

 

For those who don’t drive, the “stopping distance” is the space between the point one applies the brakes and the place one actually comes to a halt. If I hit the brakes at 30 m.p.h. on a dry surface my car will stop 75 feet (23 meters) down the road. Elsewhere in life I’ve always been convinced I can come to a dead stop. But I’m always proved wrong. Stopping is hard.The most effective way to apply the brakes is by applying, releasing, and applying them in short bursts. My 2016 was a little like that. Personal matters I thought had stopped preoccupying my mind long ago, lingered still. Dedicating myself to a strict regime of one-per-month paintings was like trying to apply the brakes on my thoughts in short bursts, hoping to bring them to a more effective halt.

 Today is the Winter Solstice. Tomorrow the daylight will last that little bit longer and the dark nights that little bit shorter.

All text, pros, poetry, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

My Intended Novel: The illustrations.

Above: Illustrations for the first two chapters of my intended novel

I’m typing this on a rather cold, dark, breezy, first day of June. But I’m in good spirits, having just completed the first two illustrations for my intended novel. I shall refer to them as illustrations, although they don’t literally depict events in the story as much as accompany it. And I shall keep referring to the book as “my intended novel” as a means of taking off the pressure. Completion might well be a long time coming.

All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

A New Beginning.

After resigning from teaching.

 The January sun never quite reaches the patio doors of my modest two up two down town house on the edge of the city, but rather reflects off the red urban brickwork opposite, to cast its orange glow throughout my lounge. It is a Monday morning, but one unlike any other Monday morning that has gone before. Normally, at this early hour, on the day which traditionally heralds the start of the working week, I wouldn’t be here, and it’s hard to shake the feeling that I should not be.

As I go from room to room each one feels like it is harbouring the same sense of confusion: Why was the alarm clock silent? Why no radio? Why no hiss from the kettle nor metallic spring from the toaster? The click of the key in the lock? Or the clang from the garage door? Today these rooms are wondering what the hell I'm doing here and perhaps, just for a moment, so am I. Monday morning's carpet is an unfamiliar place for my bare feet to find themselves. Indeed, the whole house seems so very unfamiliar on a weekday; so totally silent, as if it's been caught out in some act of great secrecy.

Taking to my seat in the corner of the lounge by the staircase, I press “start” and my computer stirs to life, causing Google's homepage to further illuminate the room in readiness for a coffee and laptop breakfast time. There are no emails, and I’ve never really been sociable enough for social media. So, I swivel my chair around to further peruse this environment I’ve owned for a couple of decades but never yet felt I’ve truly lived in.

The CDs along the shelves present themselves in orderly straight rows, precisely arranged according to artiste. Apart from their silence they remind me of the rigid rows of passenger seats I once sat amongst at this time of day on my way to work, or the formal rows of desks I was responsible for once I arrived there. I wonder if the people on the bus, or those seated at their desks, are now wondering where I am? They still having a clearly defined purpose in life, whilst I wonder what mine might now be. It's been a long time since I had the sheer luxury of Time; the time to sit awhile and truly listen to those CDs, feasting my after-work ears with glorious music. But for the moment I decide not to disturb their plastic perfect display, just in case I’m mistaken and this place is not actually mine after all. Instead, I address the room and its contents out loud: “Don't you remember me? I'm the person who used to live here. I’m the person who used to live here and paint like fury over the summer months, blinds drawn against the sun. I’m the person who actually used to exhibit my art”.

The first sound to break the room’s silent response came with the morning post. Although startled for a moment, I do like the sound of letters as they tumble through the letterbox, and I wonder if they’ve always made that same sound across the years when this house was empty of a weekday, with no-one here to receive nor hear them. I like letters. Opening a letter is like opening an oyster. Sometimes you find a pearl. But only sometimes. I think maybe last night’s dream contained a pearl; a pearl of wisdom.

I dreamt I was walking across the village green at the place I used to live. In the centre of the green were people I once knew, all engaged in a game of cricket. When I approached, they greeted me as if little or no time had passed at all, handing me the bat and saying “We were wondering where you’d got to. Come on, it’s your innings”, and all of them most eager to resume a match my absence from which had apparently caused a delay. The irony is that, not only have I never played a game of cricket in my life, neither have I ever indulged in sentimental visits to people or places past. The saying is true: “You Can’t Go Home Again”, and neither have I ever wanted to. Memories of once upon a times and “good old days”, no matter how cherished, are simply just that. I believe the “good old days” start every time your first foot hits that early morning carpet. And that’s what I think the dream was all about: I cannot go back, but I can surely reconnect with the person I used to be, the one that even I myself was perhaps “wondering where I’d got to”.

With the sun now a little higher in its crisp blue clear sky, I finish my second cup of coffee, shave, and get dressed. This new life which starts today, permits a favoured and faded pair of weekday jeans, relegating the collar and tie code of my previous profession to the depths of a wardrobe drawer. A new life, like a blank canvas. But what lines to pursue to give it shape, colour, and purpose? I’ve worked on many large canvases in the past, but none as large as this, its size determined only by however many years lay ahead. I am home. I am ready for the new challenge.

All text, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.