Bought from Emmaus, delivered early and now full of detective fiction.
Staring at the Sun. I used to do that as a kid. Stupid really, especially as I had an operation on my eye when I was 4. I can't remember any of it, but I detest hospitals, and assume that is a repressed memory of the trauma. It was miles away in Sunderland and in an age when visitors were totally discouraged.
When I made this one, I had some idea of the image I wished to create, hence the underlying colour 'fits' with the mountain and the radiant sun. The combination of these two shapes, a circle and a sharp triangle, has always stood for penetrative sex in my mind, though that Freudian explanation only came after the first few uses.
Now back to the theme: my library keeps growing. I get through at the very least one book a week. After I left the CIA, I went to no exhibitions or galleries and avoided Art History as a subject completely. It had become anathema. Now, I read catalogues avidly, the essays and the notes on the works shown, but of course there are none open at the moment. I am particularly looking forward to Michael Ayrton at the Fry in Saffron Walden. On Amazon old tomes accompanying exhibitions have insane prices. I wanted 'Bronze' from the RA; it was over £300. Greed, greed, greed!
Many of my old catalogues were water-damaged when my stepfather's garage roof leaked. Proof that the best laid plans... It is all futile, but I loved sorting books this morning. Like a histogram, the shelves showed that Jo Nesbo is probably the most thoroughly read author (with Agatha Christie a run for his money). I had predicted Ian Rankin or Peter James, but sometimes I have had to borrow their books rather than buying them. Another function of poverty. It would be so nice if the van Gogh Museum had Vincent's books, but no.
I used to devour Picadors too, but a fair few have disappeared in 'disasters' over time. Quite a lot were painted in a set of book still-lives' I did a while back. May post them, but not sell soon.
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