Today started miserably. My usual two hour journey to uni took three hours and I sat anxiously on the tube thinking about the good stuff I was missing.
The train was pretty full but weirdly nobody said a word and as we crawled between stations pausing at each one, you could have heard a pin drop.
The heavens opened as I stepped off the bus and added hail stones for extra measure... I squelched into college, soaked to the skin and caught the last 20 mins of a book cloth workshop.
Later we walked back to Wilson Rd (more rain..) and I sat in the lecture soggy and cold listening to talks about curating and residencies and possibilities I can only dream of - for now.
'If you can dream it you can do it'.
I have been looking forward to the Louise Bourgeois exhibition at the Freud Museum and finally made it last week.
It was interesting to see her work displayed in the more intimate setting of the little museum and a different experience to the big Tate show a few years ago. I particularly loved being able to scrutinise the textile sculptures up close. (I still get a kick out of seeing the evidence of an artist's hand.)
Upstairs there were a number of her notes, lists and letters.(well copies of them..why copies?) She writes of her intense fear of abandonment and the emptiness she feels... the saddest of these is a small playing card on which is written 'I do not deserve to be happy. You are an idiot. Talk to Sam" After the first 5 or 6 notes it was almost too depressing to keep reading the rest.. what must it have been like to feel the need to write all this. Did her art prevent her from ever moving on or did it, as she said, keep her sane?
Freud Museum: The return of the repressed
I'm following my bliss.