I dropped off my *installation* today. Private view Thursday, open for a month after, art lovers.
It was PISSING DOWN, I was worried about 18 months of work being written off by a stray raindrop, and taped the plastic carry case up, and gave people fierce looks on the tube when they came anywhere near me.
Bumped into Marcelle, the awe-inspiring artist whose work is in the British Museum and the V&A, the one who sent me a print for the sale (nearly fainted when I found out afterwards how much her work sells for) on the way to drop her work off too. I was a bit tongue-tied and star-struck but managed to thank her.
There was a pretty, utterly uninterested work-experience young girl on reception. Damn, I thought the lovely caretaker would be there. He'd have looked after it.
"Put it there" she points into a corner, where wrapped up pictures are already stacked. "Can you hang it up, please?" It's not framed, it's just in a bag, it will get crushed really easily. She nods but I can tell she doesn't care, SHE DOESN'T CARE. I don't want to be precious and leave before I look like a prima donna in front of Marcelle.
But I walk out feeling like I've left a baby behind. What if it gets creased? What if it gets crushed? What if it gets bent? What if they lose it? I go to Waterstones to distract myself and somehow end up buying an expensive book in a trance.
It's this book. Enjoying it very much. What could be better than a comic (graphic novel if you insist) about a famous artist's model in 1920s Paris? One quibble - there is a sequence where they show her being photographed by Man Ray. It's this photograph, but I'm pretty sure these are Lee Miller's boobs, and not Kiki's.
Fear of Colour
8 hours ago