Tuesday 29 September 2009
Monday 7 September 2009
Work, wine and a radiobroadcast.
Aah the exhibition has opened and now it is time to get ready for the reading tonight which will also be broadcast over the Slovenian radio, which is very exciting. I will post pictures from the exhibition tomorrow but for now I leave you with a short excerpt from my writing.
An acrid taste enveloped his mouth as soon as the coffee landed on his palate. It was a bad omen he decided, after all what could a day begun with bad coffee be a symbol of. The middle-aged man who owned the Egg in the Urals was, a somewhat known character, in Kilburn, a Russian, Glen had told him that morning. He had been rushing off to work, apologising for the lack of breakfast materials in the house and encouraged Anthony to breakfast at the greasy spoon up the street, the Egg in the Urals. He had quoted their coffee as a speciality of north London, a speciality indeed Anthony thought.
The owner was a large man and his belly protruded from beneath his shirt as spoke on the mobile glued to his ear. His gruff hands made the small device seem minuscule in comparison, like it was being swallowed by a beast, a flytrap. He spoke surprisingly good English Anthony thought, after hearing snippets from his conversation from which he concluded that the Russian was talking to a locksmith, a key maker. Apparently he needed new keys for a couple of Mercedes that he was keen to have made by the end of the day.
To Anthony’s delight the breakfast was edible even good and he began to focus his attentions on the task at hand. Thoughts of bad omens disappearing in to the slippery eggs and fried mushrooms.
He would need to get a new notebook before going to the Museum, he wanted a clear place in which to write his musings. In fact he was quite adamant that all his findings today would be clearly printed on clean pages, free from older failed attempts. He could feel that he was close to a breakthrough, that today somehow the artefacts would all connect, make sense and open up the world that he so craved to see. His thoughts were interrupted: by the young girl who had brought him his coffee.
-Is everything alright sir? She spoke with accented English, You not have touched your coffee?!
-No, everything is fine, just the bill please, he answered thinking it better not to mention his distaste for the substance, as the Russian had paused in his conversation to glance in his direction.
-I can put in to go cup, the girl tried again holding his gaze by a strand of hope. Obviously this was not the first cup to be turned down.
-No! Thank you. Anthony replied a bit too abruptly to seem casual.
The girl was taken aback but composed herself and said without a smile. ‘I bring bill.’
Anthony tipped the girl five pounds: more then he usually would, especially at a greasy spoon, but the money calmed his nerves and his conscience. It was an old habit, one he hardly recognised as inheritance from his family; solving inconsistencies, hurt feelings and broken promises with a wad of money its size directly related to offence made.
London was cool this morning, but he could smell that it would turn out unseasonably hot later in the day. He was glad to be spending it in the dry, air conditioned museum – taking his time, walking through the libraries, seeing the objects that had for the past two centuries been opening up stories about civilisation. He was particularly excited about the special Mayan exhibit, the reason he had come down to London in the first place. The exhibit boasted the largest and oldest jade mask ever to be recovered, and yes he was excited to see it but it was not the object he had come to see. The object he had come to see was small not grand and colourful but mild and never studied in great detail. He believed it would be the key, to finally unravelling the truth, to get the answers he so desperately needed.
An acrid taste enveloped his mouth as soon as the coffee landed on his palate. It was a bad omen he decided, after all what could a day begun with bad coffee be a symbol of. The middle-aged man who owned the Egg in the Urals was, a somewhat known character, in Kilburn, a Russian, Glen had told him that morning. He had been rushing off to work, apologising for the lack of breakfast materials in the house and encouraged Anthony to breakfast at the greasy spoon up the street, the Egg in the Urals. He had quoted their coffee as a speciality of north London, a speciality indeed Anthony thought.
The owner was a large man and his belly protruded from beneath his shirt as spoke on the mobile glued to his ear. His gruff hands made the small device seem minuscule in comparison, like it was being swallowed by a beast, a flytrap. He spoke surprisingly good English Anthony thought, after hearing snippets from his conversation from which he concluded that the Russian was talking to a locksmith, a key maker. Apparently he needed new keys for a couple of Mercedes that he was keen to have made by the end of the day.
To Anthony’s delight the breakfast was edible even good and he began to focus his attentions on the task at hand. Thoughts of bad omens disappearing in to the slippery eggs and fried mushrooms.
He would need to get a new notebook before going to the Museum, he wanted a clear place in which to write his musings. In fact he was quite adamant that all his findings today would be clearly printed on clean pages, free from older failed attempts. He could feel that he was close to a breakthrough, that today somehow the artefacts would all connect, make sense and open up the world that he so craved to see. His thoughts were interrupted: by the young girl who had brought him his coffee.
-Is everything alright sir? She spoke with accented English, You not have touched your coffee?!
-No, everything is fine, just the bill please, he answered thinking it better not to mention his distaste for the substance, as the Russian had paused in his conversation to glance in his direction.
-I can put in to go cup, the girl tried again holding his gaze by a strand of hope. Obviously this was not the first cup to be turned down.
-No! Thank you. Anthony replied a bit too abruptly to seem casual.
The girl was taken aback but composed herself and said without a smile. ‘I bring bill.’
Anthony tipped the girl five pounds: more then he usually would, especially at a greasy spoon, but the money calmed his nerves and his conscience. It was an old habit, one he hardly recognised as inheritance from his family; solving inconsistencies, hurt feelings and broken promises with a wad of money its size directly related to offence made.
London was cool this morning, but he could smell that it would turn out unseasonably hot later in the day. He was glad to be spending it in the dry, air conditioned museum – taking his time, walking through the libraries, seeing the objects that had for the past two centuries been opening up stories about civilisation. He was particularly excited about the special Mayan exhibit, the reason he had come down to London in the first place. The exhibit boasted the largest and oldest jade mask ever to be recovered, and yes he was excited to see it but it was not the object he had come to see. The object he had come to see was small not grand and colourful but mild and never studied in great detail. He believed it would be the key, to finally unravelling the truth, to get the answers he so desperately needed.
Saturday 5 September 2009
Mountain pigs, paintings and exhibition preperation.
Time seems to be going by so quickly now that i hardly have time to catchmy breath. Tomorrow is our exhibition opening and i still have to set up work and record some things, it is going to be a super busy 24 hours.
yesterday we went to Piran to hand in our paintings for the EX-Tempore competition. As painting is not really my usual thing i have no hopes of even getting to the final 100 but i thought its good to give new things ago.
This is my first attempt at a painting in about three years, i had forgotten how much fun it is to paint. This one is not by any means my best work but it does tell the mythological tale of the water tree nymph which i made up a few days ago.
tonight is the opening of Ex-Tempore and we will be back in Piran (a beautiful little town) to see the start of the festivities.
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