Casting for a Star

No, this isn't about Britain's Got Talent or even the Edinburgh Fringe (its that time of year). The title refers to the last line of a poem by David Whyte, 'Brendan'. In it, David, unsentimentally, talks about his son, and tries to fathom the depth of love he has for him. Its a pretty cool poem and gives life to those feelings I have for my own kids in a way I couldn't even begin to. I suppose it came from this that I ended up painting tonight and reflecting on how much I miss my boys when they're away with their mum. Yeah, its the second summer as a lone parent, and it poses some unsettling challenges. We had the first week of the holidays together last week and it was in turn: brilliant, tiring, inspiring, frustrating and ultimately full on. It culminated in attending the wedding of my pals Jo and Harvey, which they enjoyed with only the relish that kids can.

(My 5 yo dancing to alt-rock band Voytek The Bear at a wedding do, lol.)

The fact is I love having time alone to paint and do my thing, and not to be the constant showman, peacemaker, meal maker and dad, but as any parent will tell you, there's an anxious gap that will nag without end when your kids aren't around. To this end I started to re-read David Whyte's, 'The House of Belonging', an astonishingly good collection of poems (The TV is only going back on when the final run of Breaking Bad arrives). Reading 'Brendan' amplified the feelings around being a single dad, adrift in 'alone time' and kind of affected the painting I did last night. I started to rework an abandoned painting and there is something about it that reflects the mood I'm in.

(work in progress)

I like where its going. There is something less urgent and more 'found' about it. Theres a little competition on Facebook concerning 'Tips for Painter'. There's lots of talk about customised palletes, duct tape and recycled brushes. My tip would be simple... Read poetry before picking up a brush.

'Jupiter in the western sky

and my

son walking

with the wide arc

of the sea behind him.

(from Brendan, by David Whyte)

(The dudes, last week on Morecambe beach)