M-m-m-My Corona part 18. Epilogue.

 

Tonight’s sunset reminded me of the first oil painting I did, albeit that one was actually meant to be a sunrise. But the low sun and silhouetted purple clouds? Exactly the same.

Lots of things at present are invoking memories of the past. I think I’m really tired. And when I get tired, rather than resting, I start finding things to occupy my thoughts. Not that I’ve been short of things to do. The sequence of responsibilities from Power of Attorney, to managing care home costs, to organising a funeral, to applying for Probate in order to then execute a Last Will and Testament, all against the current backdrop of lockdowns and restricted movements, took their toll.

I have been attempting to write something from a personal perspective about this pandemic year, but to no avail. What is there to say about a life style of government-imposed rules, restrictions and lockdowns, interrupted by little other than trips to the grocery store?

I shall endeavour to rest my brain over the Christmas season.

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

A poem for the pandemic.

 

 

What day is it today?

How to make my time go by?

The street is filled with school yard silence

No vapour trails in the sky.


An updated version of this poem was included in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".

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

M-m-m-My Corona part 17. End bit.

 

I had intended to write something today about the current and on-going Covid situation. Not necessarily from a personal perspective, but also a historical one. For example, more civilians have already died from this virus in the last 8 months than died in the whole of the Second World War. So they are telling us. Whether they died from Covid or Covid was simply present, is not known. There are questions to ask. There may not be answers.

But my creative mind is currently blank. Erased no doubt by this pandemic situation: A time when both everything and nothing seem to be happening at one and the same time. Like knowing the world is still going round but, from the comfort of the lockdown armchair and from behind the face mask, who can tell?

It will pass.


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

M-m-m-My Corona part 14.

 

Eye test? Check.
Car serviced? Check
Flu jab? Check.
Loo rolls & hand sanitizer secret stash? Check.

Okay. Bring it on.

In all honesty I’ve pretty much remained in lock-down. Those times I have ventured forth for simple things like a local beer or coffee, getting told where to stand, where to sit, and being asked for contact details, just takes all the pleasure out of it. I understand the necessity, and I comply with the rules, but I don’t want to remember some of my favourite haunts that way. And I won’t.

Making sure I don’t become permanently bonded to either the sofa, the doorstep, the CD collection, the paintbrush, or the TV remote, during these months, my daily routine starts with a brisk stride around the block. It’s this which has reignited my love of photography. So, m-m-m-My Corona weeks ahead may well see me pursuing this one-time “hobby” a little more.

All text and photographs copyright ian gordon craig.

M-m-m-My Corona part 13. Summer in the City.

 Straw Trilby? – Check.
Face mask? – Check.
Reactor-light glasses? – Check.
Bus pass? – Check, although beneath my face mask disguise, its passport style photo is totally useless.

Today I decided on my first trip into town since lockdown began. It seems longer. Regardless of the virus, I no longer tend to browse shops. These days the word “browse” is officially defined as an internet activity, number 2 on the Cambridge Dictionary charts as such. People no longer browse in the real world.

The bus into the city centre deposited so much sanitizer onto my hands it would have facilitated a full shower. Shortly thereafter, just as that first dose managed total evaporation, the Art Gallery dispenser’s sticky deposit made for a generous top-up. And that’s when the identity requests began, with a curator like a border guard asking for my papers. Once upon a long ago, at various night club doors, it was “If you’re not wearing a tie, you’re not coming in”. Now, one is expected to provide contact details, “just in case”. Yeh right. I do appreciate and accept the need for all this. But for me, the simple joy of “going for a coffee” is fast being negated by what now feels like a form filling, tax return activity.

There are winners in this world of the Nouveau Normals. A few short years ago the bright blue Caffe Nero stores were very much the new kids on the block. Not so today. Wherever one walks in the city a veritable host of bright blue Deliveroo bicycles, carrying huge bright blue food boxes, dash, hover, and surge as they negotiate their narrow way through masked pedestrians. “Meals on Wheels” has become yet another term with a brand-new meaning for the 21st century.


All text copyright Ian G Craig.

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 11, into the New Normal.

 Have you all got your cam-chat backdrops sorted out? No, not the screens on your cell phone or computer, but what you choose to strategically place behind you when you’re on camera. I think you need to, now we are entering the New Normal.

The default choice in England (can’t speak for the rest of the UK), would appear to be bookshelves. Especially for politicians. Every time I see an interview now on the T.V. they all have rows and rows of books lined up behind them. I can imagine them barking orders to their assistants: “Get me some books! Lots of them!” So, don’t choose books. It’s been done. Not to mention the fact, with HD pictures, people can easily read the titles of whatever it is you’re into. I think at least one politician got caught out with some reading matter regarded as dodgy.

Not sure what I’ll be choosing, if at all. The only webcam I have is one of those crazily wide-angle things on my laptop. In fact, it’s SO wide angle I have to practically scrub and tidy my entire house before I dare turn it on. But be sure you will be judged by your cam-chat backdrop, just as surely as you were once judged by the manner and style of your dress.

Something for you to be thinking about.

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

M-m-m-My Corona part 10.

 “Are you drawing Thoresby Hall?”

The voice comes from behind me. I am facing Thoresby Hall and obviously drawing it.

“No”.

She doesn’t get it. Or maybe it’s a sh*t likeness.

Now the lockdown has loosened its grip slightly on some of my favoured regions for sketching and strolling, my sketchbook opted for Thoresby Park as first choice. There are few visitors today.
Since UK TV has started to include several art programmes in its lockdown schedule, I am finding more and more people wanting to approach me with questions about what I’m doing, no doubt trying to imitate the judges and commentators they’ve seen on TV. Normally this would drive me nuts, but in the present circumstances the company is rather nice, albeit socially distant and possibly unsighted.

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

M-m-m-My Corona part 9.

 I couldn’t understand why the covid infection rate for the East Midlands (153.9), is higher than that of Nottinghamshire as a whole (145.3). The East Midlands does not have the overcrowding, the international student population, the high immigration, nor the poorer quarters that the city itself has. Then I looked down the list of the East Midlands’ towns and villages most affected:

Gedling – 199
Broxtowe - 222
Rushcliffe - 155
Newark and Sherwood - 129
Mansfield - 109
Bassetlaw - 176
Ashfield – 206

I saw in a heartbeat what links all those places. They all had a colliery. Indeed, in some cases more than one. A significant proportion of the retired male population now living in those areas would have been coal miners; employment which took a toll on their lungs, affecting many for life. (An uncle of mine spent his final years with oxygen tanks constantly on hand).

I have no idea if anyone has considered this as a so called “underlying condition” when assessing chances of infection or fatality, nor if it would be of use to do so anyway. But it perhaps does explain what I thought to be a curious statistic.

(Note: All above statistics are official as published on-line by the Nottingham Post).

 All text copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

M-m-m My Corona part 8.

 This is how it works: The pandemic doctor calls first. As if the diagnosis has already been diagnosed. That’s why the BBC is careful to say died “with” Corona virus rather than “of”. Keeping it legal. And don’t forget the all important “underlying causes”. Or is that simply under lying.

Either way I’ve stopped applauding the NHS on Thursday nights. It’s not just the dance routines in empty wards, wearing expensive protective clothing we are told is in short supply. It’s the knowledge of how many hours those routines take to rehearse when they could have been doing something more useful.

The pandemic doctor had no bad news. She just wanted to clarify details: Yes, mum's DNR notice is correct. (Do Not Resuscitate). Yes, if the tests are positive, we think care in the care home would be better than care in the hospital, whether full of strangers or empty.


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

M-m-m My Corona part 7.

 Mum’s care home suggested a Skype chat might cheer her up during this lockdown when visitors are not allowed. Okay, I’m game. Bearing in mind mum has never understood, and obviously never will, this whole 21st century thing of internet communication.

I’m betting that twenty years ago she could still remember how to sew together a parachute in a war factory, not to mention a few pairs of knickers for herself, put together from the left-over scraps and slipped into her handbag before the supervisor saw. All the girls did that. But the concept of a two-way conversation with a family member via a screen which to her looks like a TV? No way. As the saying goes: “Does not compute”. Literally.

So, a short Skype was spent with her telling the carers sat beside her about the “nice smile” the person on the screen has (me), rather than talking directly to it. Blowing kisses was an achievement.

A few words of acquired wisdom for anyone whose parents are reaching a very advanced age; this being the time just after “there are witches in the house” and the care home opening its doors to whatever the future holds:

Firstly, greetings style cards are no good. Old fingers cannot always negotiate the envelope, nor handle the folding mechanism of the card itself, and your handwriting probably now resembles scribble to them. Secondly, to an old person, a phone ringing means a complete and absolute disaster has befallen their entire family and, walking frame or no walking frame, they must reach the phone at a pace which challenges all previous Olympic records, pacemaker be damned. Also, a phone conversation in the morning will be forgotten by the afternoon. It’s an intangible thing and cannot fill the empty space of the day.

My solution has been very simple: Using a very plain font style, and as large as fits onto one single A4 sheet, print out a letter. It need only convey three basic things in big text:

1. Your children and grandchildren are all fine and doing well…
2. Do you remember… (Mention something happy from the past).
3. We are all looking forward to seeing you soon…

On a second A4 sheet print out an old photograph from the family album. Group scenes and locations can be confusing. Close-ups are good.

And that’s it. They have something they can return to through the day, read even with well advanced cataracts, and show other people. Be humble, keep it simple.

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

M-m-m My #Corona Part 6

 

I made a quick rainbow design for my kitchen window, this being the symbol for supporting the NHS during the current pandemic.

Art 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.

M-m-m- my Corona part 4.

 

Yesterday I received the call from my mother’s carer. Coronavirus has now entered her care home.

What then stayed in my mind for the rest of the evening was not so much the information; frankly that had been anticipated. No. The thing which did haunt me was the tone in that young carer’s voice. Probably only about twenty-five years old, but with a voice now trying to conceal a combination of fear, and trying to keep calm. Much like one might imagine coming from someone inside a doomed airliner, unable to get out.

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

M-m-m-my Corona part 3.

 

In light of current events one of the two exhibitions I applied for recently has decided to go “virtual”: An on-line show only. In some ways I suppose it will make little difference. That’s how most people experience art now anyway, and in greater numbers.

The other exhibition is intending to go ahead. Perhaps they can space the paintings 2 metres apart, with police barrier tape on the carpet. “Move along please, you’ve been stood there looking at that one for virtually five minutes already!"

I am reminded of the Jerome Kern song: “A Fine Romance, my friend this is, a Fine Romance with no kisses”. It’s all well and good, but it won’t make babies.

 All text and photos copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

M-m-m-my Corona part 2.

 

 “How long now?”
“Third week for me”.
“And you’re already talking to yourself?”
“No, I've been doing that for years”.

I seem to be in competition with myself as to how much coffee I can drink. I won’t win. Nobody I know drinks more coffee than me these days. Does anyone remember “Camp Coffee”? It was a brown liquid; something to do with chicory essence. No doubt more chicory than coffee. It had a “faithful servant” Sikh soldier on the label, waiting on the needs of his Scottish Major, a Gordon Highlander. (Maybe he was a “camp” soldier?) Anyway, it would have been the Gordon Highlander name that got it into our house. I was practically breast fed on “Camp" because of the kilt on the label. It was only going to be a matter of time before I hit the harder stuff.

You know how the 20th century actually started in 1914? And, on a smaller scale, the sixties in 1963? Or perhaps you don’t. Well, it feels like the 21st century has gotten underway. Twenty years after Tony Blair’s silly Millennium Tent; nine later than the loss of the Twin Towers. Remember what Jack Harkness said: “The 21st Century that’s when it all began”. Welcome.

Today I donned my purple surgeon’s gloves, pulled a scarf up over my face, and joined the line of Sainsbury’s shopping trolleys. Police tape on the ground measured out the distance between each customer, as limited numbers were allowed to enter the store. I felt and looked like a cross between Claude Rains' Invisible Man and the Lone Ranger. Have to confess, in a “dark” sort of way it was quite humorous.

Seeing anyone cough or sneeze now, is a bit like that moment in a soap opera or movie when you think “that’s it, they’re going to be written out of the script”.

White oil paint has become the new toilet roll in terms of rarity, at least that’s what it seemed like trying to purchase some Titanium White on the ‘net today. Maybe everyone is doing what I’ve been doing: Locking myself away and painting. I still have a long since unfinished plastic pollution painting, which I’ll get around to during the months of confinement ahead. Today I re-arranged my laptop and easel for maximum efficiency, enquired about a new place I might want to move to, ate far too many chocolate bourbons, and got news that relatives in London have sore throats. It’ll be fine.

 All text copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

M-m-m-my Corona part 1.

 

 

This pandemic is going to be around for a LONG time, isn’t it? One is reminded of the “over by Christmas” promises of a century ago. I very much doubt we’ll reach any such deadlines.

I was out shopping this morning. The first Sainsburys I went to had a long equidistant line of supermarket trolleys around the car park, monitored by security guards. Deciding to drive to an alternative Sainsbury’s slightly nearer home, I found I could walk straight in and purchase pretty much anything I liked, in moderation. The petrol station at the end of my road has a floor to ceiling toilet roll display. In a crisis, toilet rolls always become a kind of currency in the UK.

I have enough stuff, for now. Probably more tins of beans and macaroni cheese than I’ve ever eaten in my life, but also a good stock of fresh fruit and veggies for my morning blender. (Can’t cook won’t cook). And vitamin pills.

Obviously, I’m spending time making art. I think I started on this self-isolation malarkey back in 1960. My favourite childhood weekend activity was setting out with a home-made sketchbook and an improvised specimen box for the pheasant feathers and owl pellets I collected along the way, all then to be studied and sketched beside a strictly out of bounds deer hut. No such opportunity at present. Over these past two days the sunshine brought to mind all the places I like to go sketching but can’t visit, as scenic estates and attractions across the county are understandably shut down. No complaints.

Yesterday, as I stood on my doorstep nursing my usual morning coffee, a peacock butterfly came past and settled down on the sunlit path. It seemed so out of place.

All text & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.