Letter to Lewis

Hello, my little love.

I am on the tram on my way to the op shop, for the start of another long Wednesday.

My afternoon in the studio went well, and I wish I could be in there today. The collection is looking good, I think, and full of interest (I hope!). But I still feel I have a lot to do. Some clincher, something that really brings it all together. What struck me in my uncle's work the other night was a sort of internal glow and a near-magical surface energy afforded by a shimmer of tiny silver lines across blackest-black ground. I'm still struggling with my blacks. I could have them easily with soft pastel, but I'm determined to achieve them with ink. I don't know why. I query it often in myself - I don't think it's mere stubbornness. But it's nonetheless important that the quality of my drawings does not suffer because of it.

Anyway. I am used to my uncle's surface magic. He has perfected it over decades. But this drawing, a small female head, untypically intimate, caught as though in motion, was devastatingly beautiful. It's the first drawing of my uncle's that I've strongly wanted to own. And my own drawing has such a long way to go!
Tomorrow, his latest show opens.
I am hoping that the confrontation with the rest of his collection doesn't dismay me too much!

That said, I was pleased to find, on returning to the studio yesterday, that my work still looks good. And I actually appreciate the gentle kick in the pants as far as craftsmanship goes. Finer, more careful, more beautiful. This collection is more symbolic than previous shows of mine, and I need to be careful that that doesn't dominate. Symbolism only goes so far. Beauty goes everywhere.

And what of you and your work? I can imagine the situation is quite alarming. Are you worried, frightened?

I have to confess that, being the romantic that I am, I felt a real thrill for you when I read that you might be getting 'the boot'. Imagine! The freedom! Suddenly everything is possible. And to learn this while at large, in Paris, experiencing the enormous, sprawling generosity of the world! Is there any part of you that thrills, too, or does the mortgage weigh heavily, even on a train that flies along through Europe like a shufflepuck?

I am now at Journal Cafe, with a class ahead of me that I have been creating in my head all day. I'm unusually nervous. I don't often feel this way, anymore.

I wish, dear, fickle man of terrors - on whose shifting mind I know not how my words fall - I wish that my night had you at the end of it.

You and your anxious energy, you and your chiminea sending sparks into the night, you and your strong arms, you and your soft mouth, you and your thoughts, you and your boy body and rumpled bed.

There.

No use in my pretending or justifying or second-guessing. That's how it is tonight: I miss you and my long body longs for you.

LATER:
Home now. I taught the class with gusto, humour and emphatic authority - the only chance I had at keeping their attention through a class on linear perspective. I don't always manage to sustain that bravado but I did tonight, and I felt wonderful.

On that note, faraway boy, goodnight.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx (since you used up the last lot in one go)

To bed now goes your sleepy, warm and tingling girl, sending her love through the night to your daytime...

M.