A weird thing happened after I booked the venue for my solo art show: blood drained from my fingers, turning them yellow. They tingled painfully. I took photos to show my wife:
​ If you don’t know already, I’m doing my first-ever solo art show, at a gallery in Hampstead. I’ve loved it, but also panicked a lot. I think that must explain the fingertip thingy. Tomorrow is the last day. Tomorrow, I’ll send details of the pictures in this show, and how you can buy them. ​ The private view was on Tuesday. More people attended than I had any right to expect, given that I booked the venue only six days beforehand. Wednesday was relatively busy. Thursday, with rain, was quiet. Yesterday brought a delightful succession of visitors - and I sold the largest canvas in the show, which was a TOTAL surprise, because nobody had stopped to look at it before that. Not one. That picture has been at the door of my office for about two years. I’m starting to miss it already. But in a good way, because I really want all these pictures to go to new homes and give other people pleasure. ​ ​ One of the great things about doing this show is that it forced me to do things. For example: in the six days between booking the venue and opening the show, I painted five new pictures. It also forced me to get in touch with people I haven’t been in touch with for a long time - and that is SUCH a blessing. How amazing to be back in touch with J—— with whom I travelled across the US. We haven’t seen each other for 30 years (thirty!). Also, people I have known in different parts of my working life have got in touch, and even subscribed to this newsletter. One, C———, is an eminent journalist. In a private email to me, she said nice things about my art and asked if I still do any journalism. I replied: For years I suppressed my strong urge to make and share art because I suppose I thought I "should" just be a writer.
​ It took a breakdown to make me see that art is fundamental for me. (I made about 250 pictures in psychiatric hospital, almost exactly seven years ago.)
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I've deliberately moved away from being a two-journalist household, as it doesn't seem a particularly secure industry. So I don't do a lot of journalism, no. But I love it when there is something really interesting to me. This newsletter is a bit like journalism. It has been written at great haste, a 9.49am on Saturday morning and the gallery opens in 11 mins, so I must rush. Please forgive any errors, etc etc. Thank you for reading. ​ ​ Magnolias of HampsteadVenue: Burgh House, New End Square, London NW3 ​ ​
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This woman, in this room? Unimaginable just four years ago. She was in prison, in Iran. And - more trivially - I couldn’t have dreamed that I would be doing a solo show of my art. (Hello Reader. This is my newsletter.) You may recall that in 2021 Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe’s husband Richard went on hunger strike outside the Foreign Office in London. He was protesting at the UK government’s failure to get his wife released. I went to see him. I wasn’t on assignment or anything. It was just me,...
I got some terrific replies to yesterday’s email. Thank you for being so kind, and funny, and wise. I’ve done a lot of the things I need to do. Other things will simply have to remain undone. I’m taking the pictures to Burgh House shortly, where I’ll probably write a description of them all by hand and stick that on the wall too. I may make some videos, probably for my Instagram, but who can tell. Great News This morning I received a Whatsapp message from K., a reader of this newsletter who...
Sorry, I know it’s COMPLETELY unacceptable to send out a newsletter just 15 minutes after the last one - but the fact is that I’m feeling really nervous right now. I’ve got 24 hours to get all my magnolia pictures together - I keep remembering new ones. Then decide which ones to show at the gallery - private view is TOMORROW - and which ones to leave out. I need to make a list of them all, with prices, and write something about "Me, The Artist”. Then make printed copies of it all to hand out...