Being an artist is sort of like being a writer, except writers don’t have to stand there while the general public and their spouses discuss your work.

“I know that building  in Durham and it doesn’t have a window on that side”

“I don’t quite think he’s captured that elephant’s ear right”

“Our Grandson can do better than that”

Or comments heard in our gallery.

“How long did it take you to paint that”  “Really, our daughter could do that without trying, she’s a wonderful painter you know”

“Why does he put mounts round his paintings, I want a big picture with a big gold frame, after all I wouldn’t buy a television with big sides and a small picture”

“Who painted all these”. Me “I did”  “Oh I thought they had been done by a real artist”

“If I buy two can I have one at half price”

“Is this your best price”

My Garret

To be an artist you need to live alone, no one to comment on that blue patch of oil on your shirt. “I only bought you that last week”

No one to get mad when you step out of your studio and walk bright red pastel dust down the stair carpet  “My God, it was only laid yesterday”

No one following you around with a damp cloth and a bottle of Flash wiping door handles and bathroom taps muttering away to themselves.

And no one saying “If you think I’m going out with you looking like that you have another think coming”  Actually that has nothing to do with paint.

Being an artist is also expensive. When I used to visit the art shop I used to be overcome with the sight of all those display cases with tubes of paint, brushes of every size, and racks of specialist paper and canvases. I always came out with more than I went in for.

Then came the internet and you could visit sites in the USA that had wondrous paints and brushes that other artists said would take you to another level in painting.

So I have lots of beautiful pastels, acrylics, and oils that look much too nice to disturb in their smart cases. It would take great will power to tear the paper wrapper from a stick of pastel or squeeze a tube of oil paint and spoil its immaculate lines.

As I sit in my studio and stare at the blank canvas on the easel I contemplate what masterpiece I am going to paint, but first I need to sort my oil paints out into levels of loveliness and arrange my brushes in alphabetical order. Then I need to turn on Youtube to listen to old 60s pop groups while I work, Oh I wonder what that is about a film star from the eighties and how she looks nowadays.

Oh, look at the time, too late to start painting now, tell you what, I’ll start again in the morning, just after I’ve checked my emails and see who’s on Facebook.

Not Enough Room To Swing A Cat

It is a struggle but at least I’m not starving in a garret, I couldn’t afford a garret.

My studio is actually my son’s old bedroom, a box room above the staircase. I have so much equipment (Rubbish according to Joan) in there I have to shimmy in sideways.

Two desks, a large easel, book shelves (actually with books), two computer screens, a turntable with two speakers, another set of speakers just in case, lots of LPs, old computers and printers on the floor, a chair, more shelves, and a cupboard which I clean out periodically while I’m waiting to start on the blank canvas.

Oh, and a model railway that runs along two walls.

I did ask my wife if I could move into one of the larger bedrooms but she hasn’t answered yet. I’ll let you know when she stops laughing.