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The Grayson Perry Reith Lectures have been a joy to me. I have listened to his words shouting “Yes!” at the radio. “Me too! I also have an inner shed!”

How to be an artist… There’s no instruction manual. For every thousand artists there are a thousand ways to be an artist. I can almost pinpoint the time at which this dawned on me. It took me a long time to get there. I can be extraordinarily naive and stupid sometimes. I can also pinpoint the time I first called myself an artist, out loud and in public. It IS a brave thing to do. It DOES feel a little bit noble. It does feel that I can only be the most Elena Thomassy when I’m being an artist. Anything else is lesser. Anything else is criminal. Anything else feels like I’m not living my life to the full. I’m wasting my brain, my thoughts, my love, my faith in humanity if I don’t make art. My supreme ability to make lemon shortbread is pointless, unless I am also an artist.

My motivation to teach, especially in primary education, is to catch them young, show them what is possible, show them that their thoughts and ideas are the thing that makes them unique, the thing that they can show to the world and leave their mark on it.

This month my diary is filled with opportunities to show myself as an artist to the world. Grayson is right: you have to grab them all, because you just never know who you will meet, who you will end up talking to. You never know what ideas will be sparked, what associations will be made between previously unrelated thoughts. I’m still reeling from the joint show with Bo Jones; I’m doing workshops with students; artist talks; The Art Party Conference in Scarborough; A meeting of the DfE Expert Advisory group for art and design… this last one, I still wonder why I’ve been asked, but I say yes to it anyway. By the middle of December, I will no doubt be almost dead with exhaustion.

The point of all this self-aggrandisement is this: It is a privilege to be an artist. It fills me with the deepest joy. I am thankful for every minute that I have to make stuff, to think, show, write and speak about my work. To be an artist is the BEST thing to be. To see the world around me, be able to process the tricky bits and make something that expresses my thoughts is something I am driven to do. Without it I am shot… shit… and shut.


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The exhibition is in a 600 year old listed building.

There’s no wifi and no phone signal.

So the plan to tweet, blog, facebook etc every day has sort of flown out of the leaded windows.

By the time I’ve driven back home and had something to eat, I’m too tired to do anything!

Tomorrow I will take this machine and write a proper blog. Then when I get home all I will have to do is post it on “pix”, and signpost it from here. Bo has taken some much better photos than me, so I’ll get him to put those up too.

Suffice to say it’s going quite well, many people saying nice things.

Goodnight all!


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Hanging Day tomorrow.

The big pile has turned into several big piles now. Today I will sort through, put them into some sort of logical order, put ticks on my lists and hopefully catch a bit of time between the showers to load the car.

My husband has been very patiently been tip-toeing around the debris and detritus (lovely words!) without comment. I know he will be relieved when it has been moved. I am hoping not all of it comes back at the end of the week, because I then have to find room to store it all.

This is my half term week from my part time school job. It’s not going to be particularly restful, so I have been front loading my slobbing around. I have had disgustingly long lie-ins on my last few days off, and plan to do so tomorrow morning too. I write this post from my bed with a plate of toast, a cup of tea and the trusty MacBook on my lap (Thank you Mike).

I have a twinge in my wrist that I am in turns ignoring, then bandaging up to give support. I had this on at work yesterday, but then ripped it off in frustration in order to bang out a bit of clay work with Year 6. I’m my own worst enemy. But how can you possibly not touch the clay when you have 8 ten yr olds wanting to have a go?

I think I ought to try to rest it next week, apart from the 100 miles round trip driving I’ll be doing every day.

I’m hoping it doesn’t just get worse and worse like earlier in the year. I’d keep my fingers crossed, but it’s hard to finish the sewing like that.


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Think I’m ready.

I’ve got all the work either framed, dowelled, cellophane wrapped. Or stuffed (yes, stuffed).

It is in a pile clogging up the sitting room. I had to flatten it out a bit last night because the tv remote wouldn’t work. I keep adding things to the pile in the manner of children collecting scrap wood for a bonfire: hammer, blutack, masking tape, little red dots, cash box (ever hopeful), duster, windolene….

I also have a list, actually, several lists.

I think I’ll just take everything.

I suspect I will look haggard and bewildered by the end of next week. I am hoping the red lipstick will dazzle people into not looking any further. I shall also point at things to distract them.

I’m actually quite pleased with what I see before me. I think the work shows development of ideas, visual links to Bo’s work, and a nod in the direction of the body of work I ended up showing for my MA last year. It has grown, but not so much to not be recognised as mine. I can also see where I might go next, which is reassuring! As I have said in my last post for “pix” the joint blog to go with the exhibition, this isn’t what I expected it all to look like, but it’s better.

All I want to do now is figure out how to hang it with Bo’s half…

Hurry up Sunday!


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Eight days left.

I’m up to my ears in frames, mountboard, bits of painted dowel waiting to dry, the iron is on and chuffing steam everywhere. There are a couple of pieces still to be finished.

I am convinced one day I don’t have enough work, and on another that I have too much. I am besieged by thoughts that Bo’s work will look amazing (it does) and will make mine look stupid. He will sell all of his and mine will be left to pack back into the car at the end of the week.

I have written a price list three or four times, on confident days upping the prices… (“I am amazing! People will flock through the doors to buy all of these, they will fight over them!”) on doubtful days pulling them down again… (“For goodness sake who on earth is going to want scrappy old bits of fabric on their walls?”)

Pathetic. Get a grip woman!


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