I am packing up and moving on.
For a week I have sorted, rummaged, discarded (difficult) and boxed. I can't sleep for 'boxing'. I'm desperate for oblivion. I drift towards unconscious bliss only to swim back to consciousness, because I'm still packing f***ing boxes, cutting bubble-wrap, scrunching paper and losing the end of the packing tape again! I think there must be some anxiety going on - the removal van is outside and I still haven't finished emptying the bottomless cupboard. I can't find the food processor and the man from the van is impervious to my panic and distress...
In and between neurosis, I've also had some lovely moments thanks to photos I haven't looked at for years: my children's school books; even my school books. Amongst the trivia, (and like fossils, the more recent stuff is closer to the surface), I found the minutes of the meeting, written in jest, when it was decided to go ahead with the Exhibition. It was hardly a formal meeting - a warm evening, sitting out in the Rondavel at the Brasserie. However, in and among the ramblings and lunacy, some things noted, are holding true.
JM's vision for the exhibition:
'I want people to come and look at my paintings - that they'll look and it will make them feel good.'
JM's success criteria:
'It is to be appreciated. For someone to walk away and say, 'I saw some lovely paintings.'
