The image maker’s dilemma 

June 19, 2017

So here’s the problem. I hate doing all this. I hate doing anything that draws attention to myself, I hate all the trappings and grandiose expectations that go along with being an artist. The title of this bit of thought seepage should have read “the artist’s dilemma ” but, I mean, how pretentious is that? Watch any even half successful artist nowadays and they have precisely one thing in common, they are all champion schmoozers. People turn up at things, network, meet agents, meet potential buyers, talk to the press and generally do their best to sell people on what they do and try and leave a good impression. 

I’ve been to these things myself and I just can’t do it, all that talking about yourself, I hear the words as they come out of my mouth on autopilot and its, blah blah blah blah waffle waffle, so much meaningless noise, over and over again.

I just can’t take any of that seriously, which is a shame as I absolutely love making art, but the whole of the garbage that goes with it is tedious. It was so much easier when I was officially crazy and I was doing it for little more than my own amusement. I just did it, nothing was riding on it and it didn’t matter. Now though, with ‘artist’ on my business bank account it does, there is pressure to earn…. Hustle that artistic ass baby! 

This is where it all goes wrong as I keep getting put into positions where I am forced to take myself seriously and am confronted with situations where I have to deal with a whole gamut of scenarios where I have to keep quiet at the insular, clicky, nature of things where I have to stick my snout in the farthest end of the trough and wait for scraps with the other pigs. Of course I mess it up, I go and be honest, I go and point out the fakery, the corruption, the nepotism and I don’t get my scraps like a good porker. I keep soldiering on though, plugging my work (which I hate) trying to sell myself, which I’m terrible at, and it achieves two things it seems. It makes me become a threat to some people and a walking target to others and still I have to carry on because now it is my job. I doesn’t help that my work is so personal, if I used some grandiose, arts council grant friendly worldly theme, I could exploit it and them. I’m essentially an introvert though, I paint and draw my thoughts, I depict my response to events I see, be they personal or public. If you depict your feeling, you get into all sorts of bother, particularly when the people who provoked that response don’t like what they see. Things get nasty then, it would be easier if I just did what everyone else does and gossip behind their backs, but nope, stupid Chris picks the earnest and honest option. This has got me two things, lots of people hate me and lots of people think I’m completely mad, I don’t really care about either on a personal level but I’m sure it hasn’t done me much good from a business point of view. 

So here I am with all these things that I’m supposed to do, promote, schmooze, network, blog, charm, apply for grants, invent work for myself. So what do I go and do? I go off and make art. Now tell me, what kind of idiot does that?

White cube, smelly shed.

June 13, 2017

Right now I should be staring at an arts council funding form to try and get some money to invest in ‘my practice’ and to find a decent showing space for the work I am doing right now. For numerous reasons, most of which would get me into trouble if I explained them in the detail I would like to, this is pushing my buttons and really pissing me off, let’s just say the words, disloyal, corrupt, ingratiating and hypocritical appear at some point in the tirade of bile that would spew forth. So instead I am pondering the notion of how we display art.

I’ve been working on a series of metre square canvases recently, I’m really pleased with how the are going and in my head I have this perfect space for them. White walls, skylights for perfect natural lighting, enough space for the paintings to breath but not so much as to feel lost. Big window onto the street with laser cut title, tasteful perfect bound catalogue and an unobtrusive invigilator, freindly enough so that people will walk in off the street, intimidating enough to politely suggest that the paintings are worth a four figure price. 

The reality will be very different I expect, their life will consist of a brief few weeks on a wall somewhere while people eat and ignore them  before they end up creating a storage headache for me. Sadly, this us the way many pictures begin their lives, piled up on a wardrobe, stacked up in a garbage, gathering dust in a corner in the vain hope that some day the artist will ‘make it’, sadly, most don’t and of those that do, it often isn’t in the artist’s life time.

I have this recurring nightmare of what will happen to my work when I die. After all, it’s all I really have to show for my blink of an eyelid on this planet. My vanity would like to believe that one of my family, friends or a distraught lover will rescue everything, lovingly curate it and bring it and my dead self to the public’s attention. Let’s face it, it would be so much easier for my work to find approval without me doing annoying things like pointing out what arseholes I think many people are. A dead Chris is a good Chris! Erm, yay!  The sad reality will more likely be some bemused landlord annoyed at the pile of old tat that they have to deal with, followed by an unceremonious chucking in a skip or some slack jawed, web footed, junk shop owner carting them off.

Probably the most ignominious fate that can befall a work of art is to fall into the hand of someone like the ageing trustafarian who occasionally raids the junk and charity shops of my home town in search of paintings to make ‘his own’ by daubing his own amateurish scrawl on top of them, assuming that he can palm off this technique as his own rather than that developed by the early situationist artists because anyone who lives outside the metropolis is a bit backwards and wouldn’t spot it! Wrong! I made a point of getting hold of a few of his ‘works’ and painting over them in return, sometimes karma needs a helping hand. 

Sometimes I think that it might be interesting to show work in something like the environment in which it originally ‘lived’ , Van Gogh’s masterpieces piled up in a spare room at brother Theo’s, Picasso’s blue period word stacked under a bed in some Paris hovel, Basquiat’s paintings  crawling with cockroaches in a squalid New York loft. It would be an interesting excercise in showing the reality for 99.999% of the world’s artists.

There are sadder fates that can meet an artwork though, like the Renaissance masterpieces stolen by the mafia to be used as security deposits in organised crime transaction for example or the impressionist paintings that sit in temperature controlled Japanese bank vaults, now no more than fancy bank notes or share certificates. It is a strange irony that art worth tens of millions meets the same fate as that worth nothing in the eyes of the artworld. To stash a picture away, unseen is the cruelest of fates for a work of art, it’s a visual medium, made to be looked at, and without that it is nothing.

Artist bloke snuffs it…. Yawn!

March 10, 2017

Contemporary painter Howard Hodgkins died this week….


The wind whistles and tumbleweed rolls across the scenery because…

I don’t care.

While the death of a human being, even a wealthy one at a ripe old age is a tragedy to his family, frankly I don’t give a shit.

Howard got rich from daubing splodges of colour on canvases, his u.s.p was that he daubed on the frames too. 

Like much in the contemporary art scene, his real art was his ability to maintain a straight face whilst picking up various awards, prizes and the cheques of course. As well as the usual knack of reverse engineering some reasoning for whatever splodge painting he happened to be doing that day. It’s all a big con, that’s the art, the art of the con. That con of the great patriarchal artist spurting out a bit more multicoloured jism into the already sodden art world.

It seems to be my lot in life to get in trouble for pointing out the blitheringly obvious to those blindly following the rest of the sheep. I got hauled into the tutors room at university for my review of the big Hodgkins show at the Hayward gallery in the 90’s. After seeing the third room of variations on smears of multicoloured paint I just felt angry that he was getting away with what was essentially a bit of a racket, no progression at all, just a winning formula that he had hit upon and kept phoning in, and I said so…. How dare I??? The great man’s art being questioned? Disgraceful!  Shame on me! 

Oh hang on a minute, I’m getting de ja vu here. Oh well…

Anyway, Howard Hodgkins, rich dead artist bloke…. Like there hasn’t be one of those before. Meh!

Oh! The picture at the top is one of my old palettes. 

The great Christmas Quanderey

October 19, 2016

I’ll let you into a little secret…


I’m not a fan of new year either.

There! I said it! 

It’s a total pain in the bum, it’s cold but it never snows and it’s the flashpoint for so many awful things. The domestic violence and suicide rates spike massively, debt rises, awfulness abounds . It’s halfway through October and I’m writing this tucked up under my duvet in bed, it’s cosy, it’s comfortable but I can feel the cold in the room biting at my exposed bits, I know that there is a beautiful sunny day out there but I’m already wary of drawing the curtains as the heat will just fly off into space, I will though, it looks so pretty. Hang on! ….

Right! Back in bed, lovely view, comedy giant hood woolly cardigan on, knitted by me I might add, cup of tea, breakfast,  lovely! So yes, it’s already cold and by Christmas it will be much colder still. The whole idea of Christmas makes sense in principle, something to give people to look forward to at the coldest and darkest time of the year, bringing the green of nature into your home, ya de ya de yah and I’m sure for many years in made perfect sense but, to nearly everyone I talk to, the whole Christmas/ New Year business is a total pain in the arse.  I could give you a diatribe of all the miserable yules that I’ve experienced but I won’t, unless you are some deluded Pollyanna type you know exactly what I mean. It is for that very reason I try and remove myself from the whole proceedings, I must add though that I always get loads of offers but there is only one thing more tragic than being the sad singleton at the end of a Christmas table, and that is being round a table full of sad singletons, everyone all fake smile and bon viver trying to convince themselves they are having the bestest of times. Nope! Can’t be doing with that! My family is even worse to spend Christmas with and since Roald Dahl is dead, it’s not even worth witnessing and sending to him as notes for one of his awful literary families. 

The latest fad in how to deal with Christmas is the ‘feed the homeless’ gig but if you haven’t already booked your chance to feel glorious about yourself by dishing out turkey and nut loaf to the unfortunate, forget it! The homeless shelter duty on Christmas Day is now harder to get into than most newly opened west end nightclubs. I pity the homeless, and having been one I should know, life is hard enough without a bunch of self righteous people puffing themselves up and assuaging their middle class guilt on your misfortune, well until they get bored and move onto to next worthy cause anyway, ooh look! There are some refugees to patronise over there!

Whatever way you look at it, unless you are one of those few people with a perfect family life and a circle of friend straight out of Notting Hill or Four Weddings and a Funeral, Christmas is at best something to be managed and there is a reason those films aren’t filed under documentaries on Netflix.

My three most appealing options for Christmas this year are as follows:-

1) leave the country. Somewhere hot and somewhere they don’t have Christmas. The lack of money scuppers this one sadly.

2) have myself put into a chemically induced coma. I would LOVE this one! It’s the nearest you could get to being tucked up in a box full of straw like a hibernating tortoise, plus….. Weight loss, superb! Will anyone do it nowadays though? No! Some annoying nonsense about medical ethics and other such rot. Bah! 

3) drop dead. Tempting…. It has all the benefits of the about solution and I would miss Christmas and the new year but… Well, you die and that sucks. I’m so looking forward to it getting warm again, it would be such a shame to miss that. 

Not being vastly rich or influential, I am stuck with a list of options on how to deal with Christmas and the new year that are no option at all. 

New year is just as bad, more parties, random and regrettable snogs with someone you will have to avoid eye contact with from then on because the narrative of every Hollywood Holliday movie tells you that new year is where the magic happens, desperately trying to make a connection and start the year off on a positive note, kidding yourself and everyone else that you are having the bestest of times. Pubs much the same but with tickets and door bouncers on treble time. Then there is the worst of the worst, new year television, recorded, well now I guess, people out of season pretending to whoop it up on New Year’s Eve, kill me now! 

So coma, still the best option.

The real problem with both Christmas and New Year is that they so flaunt the trades descriptions act, they definitely do not do what they say on the tin. What should be about friends, family and celebrating  what’s best in life become a farce of Brian Rix proportions, serving to highlight that in an age of disfunctional families and friendship groups based on getting the best photo of having a marvellous time onto Facebook, all this garbage is a redundant part of the past.

And here is the greatest of ironies, I design Christmas cards!!! What a hideous bloated hypocrite I am, trotting off to the printers with my data stick full of Christmassy images, signing up for a Christmas show at the local gallery. Stuff made by Chris, eternal grinch, Hoggins, ideal presents for all your family. Pah 

Hopefully, you may have gathered that a lot of what I am saying, what I always say, is tongue in cheek, gallows humour from someone who has to see the irony in a world that most people sleepwalk through but, even so, how do we deal with Christmas and the new year when we are grudgingly forced to deal with it?

My challenge, it seems, has been over the years to create the most sideways look at the whole silly nonsense I can. Even as far back as 1991 I was making shiny black Christmas cards with matte black images and quaint little statistics about how many turkeys were raised and slaughtered for the Christmas table. I’ve done countless non Christmassy Christmas cards, off colour ones, colour in yourself ones (years before the trend), it’s tricky finding a new angle for something that my heart isn’t in anyway. 

For the international market I’ve done my third and forth take on Alice in Wonderland I guess the reason it seems to fit so well is that people are so used to the convention of victoriana being traditionally used on Christmas cards makes it able to sneak right in there with all the usual cliches. When I drew the versions of these images that these are adapted from they were already a comment on the correlation between madness and homelessness, the caterpillar sporting a sleeping bag, the dormouse a concentration camp uniform and the hatter a disability rights black triangle. Some of this imagery is missing from these reworking but, as those who know my work well will know that what is absent is often as important as what is there. It’s that homeless thing again, it’s so important  to acknowledge but not to patronise.  My other global card is the least Christmassy thing I could imagine, the bleak and savage future of Stanley Kubrick’s take on A Clockwork Orange. It’s amazing how a bit of snow and Christmas pud makes the most dystopian of images look festive.

The local themed cards are where thing start to get edgier and the one for my home town is the most contentious of the lot. St leonards is an odd place, it has by tradition been a magnet for people like myself. Poor arty types who can’t afford to live anywhere else who like the seaside and the slightly shabby Victorian architecture. The poverty is rife and obvious but it is bearable as there are so many others in the same boat… or there were. Due to a number of articles in the broadsheet papers and Sunday colour supplements over the years, a notion that st leonards and old town Hastings has been manufactured that they are hip and happening and, after a while, people started to believe the fantasy, profiteering boutique estate agents started jacking up the prices out of reach of the locals and more and more ridiculous shops started opening selling nothing of any use whatsoever. Artisanal burger bars appeared, clicky pubs, ironic post modern this and that, insular communities of down from londoners got more and more brazen trying to turn their new how or in some cases their holiday home into a third rate London or Brighton rather than a first rate st leonards on sea. But however hard people try, the poverty of st leonards doesn’t go away, it spills out on to the streets, the street drinkers, the drug dealers, the prostitution, the crime and the vandalism is all there living cheek by jowl with the faux vintage bikes, the ridiculous beards and the yummy mummies in their brightly coloured retro mackintoshs and rosy cheeked children. So when designing a card for st leonards what else could I put on it? Why, the street drinkers of course! I’m not taking the piss here, they are there, every day of the year, down by the sea front, booze in hand, faint smell of ganga, the occasional teenager turning up in the latest sportswear to disappear with one of them to sell them drugs. This is not a criticism, this is an observance, they are there, I have painted them, end of story. 

Or is it though? It’s a strange irony that the people most likely to be offended by my Christmas card are those that are complicit in the systems that keep the poor trapped. It’s hypocritical to be concerned about street drinkers when you are off down the pub with your mates or knocking back the wine and a few spirits at a dinner party, when you unwittingly share the same drug dealers for your after dinner line of charlie or that occasional bag of weed and cheeky little e to remind you of being  back at university again.  

If you want  to truly help those with substance abuse problems, stop bloody doing it yourself!!  Stop drinking, stop taking drugs, avoid bars and pubs and remove your financial contributions from anything that props up exploitative systems that promote domestic violence, child neglect and lack of social mobility. Stop engaging! Maybe one person won’t help but it’s a start. Then, once you do, something amazing will start happening, without those chemical buffers  you will start to realise just how tedious half the things you do are, how boring or awful half the people you socialise with are, you might even get the impetus to start making a few changes to your life. Stay away from the pubs and bars and go home and read a good book, make a model boat out of matchsticks, do an open university course, watch a Ted talk, do some knitting, anything but pour money into a corrupt and damaging system.  Change is scary though, it much easier for you to stay stuck, but imagine how much harder it is for some poor sod with nothing better to do all day than sit in a shelter by the sea knocking back special brew. If you want to do some good, leading by example is a good place to start.

Ok, so now I’ve said my bit and totally failed to put the world to rights you can by my cards at the links below. Merry, erm, Christmas! Yay?

Man / Child

September 17, 2016

I bloody hate name dropping so recounting this little story is going to make me cringe. A long while ago  I helped write a book about the goth band The Cure, I never had my name on the book as the obsessive nature of Cure fans at the time meant that they have an annoying habit of turning up on the doorstep of anyone even remotely connected with them and I like my privacy. It was the early 90’s and I was pretty sick of the goth lifestyle back then, I liked the sunshine too much for a start. Plus I loved bright colours, there was more to life than black, purple and the occasional polka dot pattern. 

So somewhere near the end of my goth years,for want of a better phrase, I started doing the unthinkable, I started turning up at goth gigs in bright colours. It was at one of these, back stage at a cure concert after party, that I bumped into the then ultra famous comedian Rob Newman, one of the first comedians ever to play arena gigs. What was strange was that he had started making the same sartorial choices. To the point where we had both been shopping in the same shops, most notably Daniel Poole at the end of Neal Street Soho. It was one of the first clothes shops with a resident dj and I had been drawn in by their use of Japanese anime and in particular the really edgy stuff that is now described as hentai. I was fascinated by the ultraviolet reactive inks and the use of super reflective prints and fabrics, elements which would later morph into cyberpunk. Things were still new then, the endless stream of irony, post modernism, pluralism and mass produced, commodified, watered down, crap had yet to creep into every aspect of modern culture as it has now. But then it was new and exciting and mr famous person must have thought so too. We chatted about our outfits, like a couple of spotty teenagers in the changing room at top shop, amidst a sea of black and velvet.

Things in my life started getting messy around then, the all night parties, the weekend long parties and things that helped one stay up, alert and dancing for all that time were having nasty effects on me. The false feelings caused by substances that altered seratonin levels would mean that the skeezyiest of people would get under my radar particularly if I thought they were holding. 

I haven’t got many pictures from around that time, it was before the days of digital cameras and so photos cost money and involved effort and organisation and what little of either of those commodities that were about were better spent at the next party or getting over the last one. Strangely enough this meant that in nearly every photo of me from the messiest time of mine and many of my friends lives consisted of my holding a child and being taken by a family member. It is safe to say that in every photo I look a complete mess, pale, pallid, skin in all and a haunted look in most. Other friends came a cropper too, mental health problems, neurological problems, bad decisions, bad association. The strangest thing was the chum of mine who ended up with a strange condition where everything she touched constantly felt wet, she was a mess long before this and I knew all too well that trying to get any sense out of her on a Monday or a Tuesday was never going to happen due to her constant weekend partying habits. 

There were many casualties of that time, the rave years I guess you’d call them, but I don’t think I was one of them, whatever was going on wtih me was already in the post courtesy of genetics and a messed up upbringing. 

I’ve been reminded of this all recently by a combination of things, post rave ambient band The Orb were playing on the pier tonight just up the road  and the predictable photos started popping up on my Facebook feed and by coincidence there was some acid house themed nonsense lurching about Hastings last night. 

I’ve been trying to fathom out what had been going on with the people of my age locally. It’s as if everyone has decided to have their midlife crisis all at once and in public. Time was that the occasional middle age man would scandalise the neighbourhood by leaving his wife, getting a leather jacket, a pierced ear, a motorbike and a daft teenage girlfriend, nowadays this seems mundane as the endless attempts to recreate a youth that they probably never had, because they were too busy getting on the property ladder and feathering their family nests, get more and more bizarre. 

I have been scratching my head wondering why all this nostalgia crap and attention seeking behaviour leaves me cold and I think that I have finally worked out the answer, I have been having a mid life crisis of my own for so long that I can’t tell the difference anymore. It makes sense, well sort of, as I was a carer from an early age and had experienced extreme poverty and degradation at the hands of Thatcher’s policies. I had grown up far too fast and hit my own What’s it all about? years at the same time that my peers were still in their partying phase. Through countless years of poor mental health, poverty and vulnerability I sought to find myself, create a more fullfilling life for myself and work out just who and what I am. I guess I’m still doing it, a forty six year old man with a house full of toys and a wardrobe of T-shirts, jeans and trainers. Maybe I find all the local sillyness so hard to fathom not so much because of all the embarrassing behaviour but because everyone is such a rank amateur at it. 

The truth is that I really don’t know.

Blursed (Memento Vivere addendum )

September 14, 2016

It usually takes a little while for a blog to brew in my brain but by going out earlier than usual I managed to generate a whole different set of occurrences that bared ponderance over.  I had to pop out early today to deliver a pack of assorted stuff for sale at a high profile gig on Hastings pier this Saturday coming and as such saw my usual morning outing upside down, meeting an entirely different set of people. The most interesting factor was how so many people were in a rush, a rush for trains, a rush to be elsewhere. It did make me wonder as the last golden rays of sunrise made even the st leonards concrete look ethereal and the light played on the surface of the bluest of blue seas why anyone wanted to be anywhere else. Money  guess… 

As I walked along, watching the sea, feeling the wind in what little hair I have left, trying to remain in the moment, preventing my thoughts from wandering into areas of my life that I have no control over and making me feel sad, I remembered my daily walk in Doncaster eight years ago. A mile and a half round trip to the co op and back, a bleak little under stocked shop on a soulless 80s brick version of a hamet. A walk past house upon house by the same developer with only the slightest variation between each. Often the journey would be lowlighted by obscenities hurled from cars, the mindless local kids taking out their frustrations at their pointless little lives on anyone foolish enough to do anything as bizarre as to actually walk somewhere without wearing the prerequisite knock off sportswear uniform. Contrasting that with the now, conscious of soaking up every moment of loveliness before the weather turns and the price of the lovely summers comes back threefold on seaside dwellers like myself.

As I walked along a friend of mine squealed to a hault on her bike, stopping briefly on her way to her own meeting. A few weeks ago she and her son put up posters for my art show about the old town where they live, it was heartening to hear her feedback of how many of the shop, bar and whatever owners knew and loved my work. As she sped off I thought about this, and how the genesis of the things that make so many people happy came out of so much sadness. My need to mentally escape the bounds of that northern housing estate, rootless, mad, lost, bereft of a role and a place in life, trying to connect through the outer world by the burgeoning Internet and a world over the far horizons. None of what I have now, for better and for worse, would be here in the world without that point in time and it’s important for me to remember that. 

There is a lot going on in Hastings and St Leonards, you can while away all your time so easily doing this and that, meeting this person or that, trying to meet everyone’s demands and petty whims. I am both blessed and cursed at the same time blursed? cressed? shudder! with a wild imagination and and abiliting to appreciate the wonders of the world without the need of booze, drugs, party hats, bells and whistles and the constant need for attention that seems to be so popular hereabout. For good or bad, every day is a party in my head and one to which I can sadly wish I hadn’t been invited sometimes. I have a strange relationship with real world parties though, I have an open invitation to so many things but people now know that it is awquard both for them to ask and for me to politely decline. If I was more pretentious I would liken it to Sir Lancelot’s permantly empty seat at the round table of Camelot… The reality though is more likely a crumpled plastic glass by a bottle of fizzy mineral water and a plate of stale twiglets at a party.

Free though from that constant maintenance of egos and balance of invites and social reciprocations and the drain of finances, energies and the resultant hangovers and other repercussions from things that can never hope to live up to their expectation, I can get on with  so much more than would the leaking rusty bucket that would be social Christopher, he had his reign up to 1998 and it was a messy, hazardous one not to be repeated at pain of death… Mine. 

Anyway, I now have to reluctantly get on with my day, a route March delivery to Hastings with a rucksack full of stock that I really shouldn’t be carrying. And when I’m back, presuming my heart and back hold out, I shall illustrate this piece and send it out into the world. 

memento vivere

September 14, 2016

It’s a strange old time in a strange old world. I’m having one of those magic little moments of calm right now. It’s 7am on a warm September day. The edges of sunrise are giving the trees and the toy town posh houses across on the next hill a warm and magical glow. I’m sitting bare chested enjoying the warmth on my skin, enjoying the pure silence, broken only occasionally by a gull or a crow in the distance. It’s all the more magical knowing that I woke up panicking a couple of hours ago. Maybe it’s the Beta Blockers kicking in or that I’ve wrestled the maelstrom of contradicting thought that is my mind, if not into submission, into a shakey  truce.  A picture popped up on Facebook today, a reminder of an adventure to London with someone I care deeply about. I remember its lovely moments, its tense moments and that it ended in a little Italian restaurant back by the sea. 

Maybe this particular moment is more magical for the panic that came before… I can’t help wondering about how we as humans can find it so hard to live without structure, knowing where we fit in in space and time, in a social pecking order, a group structure, craving acceptance and approval.

I’m struggling at the moment with post project depression. That’s the nearest phrase I can find to fit so I’m sorry if it sounds over dramatic but I’m trying to come to terms with ideas that always fall short of how I would really like to present them and preparing myself to get into the next project I have lined up. I am feeling that ever present fear that the human world will catch up with me and grind me under its rollers like it does with everyone else, sinking me into routine, regularity and structure. The fight is a hard one and even on a lovely morning like this, I can feel the coldness and darkness of winters real and psychological waiting in the wings. 

Painters used to often create memento mori, reminders of the fleetingness of life and the looming omnipresence of something else but I’d rather focus on memento vivere, remembering that we are alive. To appreciate the preciousness of the now. Not by filling our diaries with as many things and people as possible but by being engaged in every second and enjoying who and what we are and not what people think of us.

And with that I shall have a coffee, deliver some artwork and go and have a walk by the sea.


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