When one has an unexpected day off work and the urge to create is not immediately swamped by a thousand and one little niggling tasks, you sit down and you damn well create, whatever that entails. So I round up a collection of fruit, flower pots and other quiet things and build a still life on the dining table. I pack out my sketchbook, pencils, pen and ink, watercolour, and settle in for some serious art.
“What are you doing?” comes the question.
“I’m going to draw, going to paint. Something.”
“Hmm.” As if this is a profound act of rebellion or insanity or just plain irrationality.
“Just a still life,” I try to explain. Do I need to feel guilty? I wonder.
“I’m just trying to get at your motivation behind this.”
O, how my fingers inched towards that bottle of fluid black!
Does creation need motivation? Do we as artists have to explain (and try to explain and keep on explaining) why we do what we do, as if it is a murder or fraud or some other heinous crime we are committing?
You were saying?
Then get out of here before I throw this inkwell!