Is Fingers my angel?

Thinking this evening; 'what would I be doing now if I decided not to paint again?'. Not finding an answer; not having had TV for over a decade now I have lost the habit of coming in and expecting to be entertained - even with my new glasses I'm not sure I could read all night, every night, and I just don't see me discovering my inner social butterfly this late in the day. Better just get back to the easel. I really can't imagine doing anything else now.

Just reading a piece on Candia McWilliams, a writer whose work I have not read, but I must add her new biography at least to my good old wishlist. For reasons not blogworthy I am always very attracted to artists, writers etc. who have suffered from depression, alcoholism, low self esteem, and come through because of or inspite of their work. That said I am also fascinated in a more scared way by those who have failed to make is out of such conditions. Yesterday I read a piece in the Saturday supplement about Issie Blow; a serialisation of a book about her by her husband Detmar. My second job in London was working in the archives at Conde Nast, the publishers of Vogue, Tatler et al and I had the immense pleasure of knowing Issie at that time when she was working as a stylist for Vogue. The Stephen Meisel shoot mentioned in the piece which Issie styled using 'posh' London girls as models was in 'my time'. She was noticeably depressed then, not long after marrying Detmar, and deeply upset by her inability to have children; it is fascinating and terrible reading the full extent of her depression and despair - numerous suicide attempts before the successful one. Depression and self doubt seem so often so inextricably linked to creativity and glorious eccentricity and individuality.

Candia McWilliams, having harnessed a great gift for writing and published successful novels, fell prey to alcoholism and depression; then as if this wasn't low enough, she lost her vision. An operation has restored her sight and she has been sober since 2001, but as she states, this is 'no simple tale of triumph over tragedy'. Her self worth seems fragile and she maintains she scares babies with her looks; how ironic as what drew me to read the piece was the photo of her so expressive and wise face.

Working today, as most of my cash-job days, puts me in contact with a variety of souls, not least the residents of the local hospital. I have no idea what the current PC term for its occupants are, but they all suffer from lesser or greater degrees of mental instability and/or addiction; in other words, not a million miles from many of the artists I greatly admire. It was suggested today that in my quest for angels I may need to look no further - a great idea for a book, but I am quite sure someone has beaten me to it! I can't help but feel drawn to the hospital 'patients'; they ask the questions we all have of the world and how it is run, and seem to me a reflection of something in us all. Maybe we have all learned how to interact with other humans, say the right things and wear the right clothes, but it is learned. Somewhere bubbling under the surface is an identity that is not informed of these things; how would this appear?