Return to sender

A cool episode from work world today which, if it falls into the bracket of 'guess you had to be there', I apologise.

Well dressed, manager/businessman packs shopping methodically as I serve him. As I finish the transaction he asks 'So what does my shopping tell you about me? Psychoanalize me from that.'

Rescue Remedy, beer and a poussin. "Well - a neurotic alcoholic with portion control issues or anorexia?" He laughed, luckily; so often the evil customer sets you up for a fall. I shared my own version when I happened to be purchasing a colouring-in book and a bottle of wine late one evening. The cashier just smiled and asked "Quiet night in?" (It was a present for a child, honest. The colouring in book. My thing is sticker books actually, I would still be happy for an hour with one of them.)

Playing the waiting game tonight; luckily not tables any more, but waiting in the frustrated, empty inbox way. The curse of the unlimited communication offered by the computer age is the empty inbox. I know, I know, 'outflow =inflow' but I have flowed already and the inflow is not happening.

Waiting on replies from a) Publisher saying 'yes, your cards are in the Book Festival' (Note positivity here; not waiting on publisher saying 'sorry, cards not going in Book Festival, changed mind, cards are rubbish, you are rubbish etc. That would be against new positive spirit...) b) Customer saying 'yes, I want to buy your painting', essentially removing worry of funding framing for forthcoming Angel show. c) Gallery owner saying 'yes, the guy did call back and say he wants to buy your picture that I mentioned last week who said he would phone but hasn't.' d) Framer and gallery owner saying 'yes, you can look after my gallery in October as a little working holiday and familiarisation with framing process.'

I shall sleep on it again and hope at least one little message reaches me tomorrow; my patience is pretty good but I do hate having to sit and wait for reactions. It has finally sunk into my head that my timescale does not always correspond with everyone elses' ie: just because I am thinking about these things all day on the hour doesn't mean that others are doing the same. They are worrying about events happening to them, now, and thinking about things that matter to them all day, on the hour.

Did a swine of a painting last night because I broke my own golden rule and barged on with painting when the drawing wasn't solid. Drawing bad = painting bad. No way around that one, and the delusional nature of the painting process can persuade you otherwise for a long period until the 'step back moment', often too late in the evening, when you realise that for all your expressive and experimental brushwork, the drawing underpinning it is fatally flawed.

Lucky I have discovered the wonders of sandpaper when dealing with acrylic paint; in oils it would be a 'scrape-back' moment; now I resort to sanding the offending portion and starting from scratch. Which I shall do once I am all blogged up and made a prawn and sweet potato curry. And snoozed a little, and played with the laundry, and phoned one mother or other.

No worries tonight, mate, tomorrow is all mine and I intend to paint like a b*****d.

Saatchi online via Facebook posted the question today; 'When did you start calling yourself an artist'. I am not alone in being unsure about this label; its not even a modesty thing - I think of myself as a painter and always have. I have tried the label on for size but on my lips it always appears in quotations; maybe a confidence matter? Maybe I just hate labels?