We’ve been a household of comings and goings the last few weeks.
Four passing ships. Joel to Glastonbury, Leo on his first nursery farm trip, Maia on her Brownie PGL holiday and me to…well my trip is later this month.
Though I did manage to escape to London last weekend for an art fair.
The whole thing was pure joy. Art fairs tick many boxes for me; the delight of great art, the act of engaging in something completely unrelated to motherhood and the part where I get to meet other creative souls and ask questions.
I chatted to several artists about their work, the story behind it, their creative process and their path to doing what they do.
There was the fine artist who said he always painted as a child then spent 20 years working in law, not painting at all, before returning to art.
“Do you paint every day?” I asked.
“Oh, 10 hours a day.” It was evident; his work was incredible. Portrait paintings so flawless they could have been photos.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I’m a writer, and I have two children. I also paint sometimes…”
I felt a bit silly telling this extraordinarily talented artist that I occasionally dabble with oil painting, but it was true.
I met a photographer who spoke so passionately about an image he’d captured of Tibetan Buddhists worshipping by their temple.
“A monk led me to a high-up spot so I could get this shot from a better angle,” he said.
Then there was the interior designer who lived in Bali for five years, whose friends kept telling her “you’re an artist”.
The gallery owner turned artist, the knitwear designer, the art-schooled and the self-taught.
I had a blast learning of their stories. So many wildly different life-paths and so much beautiful art.
Of course, I couldn’t buy anything (paintings went into the four figures) but I took a decent handful of free postcards and a giant dollop of creative inspiration.
Still high on all the artwork, I met with some friends for dinner before walking home to what I thought would be the serenity of my bed. What a perfect day. Spoke too soon.
I checked my phone for the first time in hours to find two missed calls and a flurry of messages from Joel, who’d clearly had a very different evening to my own.
“Leo’s been sick everywhere. I’ve washed him. He’s in our bed. The other bed is covered in vomit…”
So much for serenity. There was nothing serene about our bed, for minutes after walking in there sat a toddler vomiting on it. That’s two sets of bedsheets in the wash.
We hoped it was a one-off and he’d simply eaten something bad, but within days both Joel and my mum also had bad stomachs. I seem to have got off lightly, with only nausea and a heavy head.
Consuming art only makes me want to create my own. Our dining room table is currently awash with sketchpads, watercolours and paintbrushes. Art is contagious in our home. If Maia sees me painting, she will join in, and schedule permitting; vice versa.
Leo caught on this time and is currently sat opposite me working on a carefully considered watercolour piece. Few things bring me more joy than witnessing my children make art.
I’d take Maia’s illustrated pigs over a £5,000 oil painting any day.
Angela blogs at The Colourful Kind
