-Back from Sete, a miraculous little holiday with my brother Matt. He's newly widowed and coping with a bereaved family. I'm finding Ians death has strange repercussions.
Went drawing last night with a newly-established art group, fantastically depressing. Thomas-from-Paris a decent bloke; interesting, indeed. But the room was packed and the quality of the work being proffered - was overwhelmed with the horror of endless repetitions of misunderstood turn-of-the-century artworks.
----At least, that's what I would have said before I learnt to be non-judgemental.
My own work was crap too, which didn't help. Can't go back. Enough futility in the studio without extending it. How many drawings have I done over how many years? Many thousands still cluttering up what storage there is in the studio. Pointless except for the three or four that escaped my control to teach me something - at least (last nights little comfort) I've managed to destroy my facility for glibness.
Memories of drawing Ian over the last thirty-five years flashing over me. Futility, loss, purposelessness are my handmaidens today and for the foreseeable.
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