We Did Meet Once

After speaking on the phone with my sister it occurred to me, my faux biography not withstanding, I do actually have a strong confessional streak. This is the streak that gets film stars into deep water. Perhaps it should come as no surprise that some of our best actors successfully maintain a form of privacy in their private lives. I like to think the paparazzi respect them enough to leave them alone. I feel little sympathy for those who do get dragged across the coals by the press. I suspect they have brought the problems on themselves and with a bit more intelligence and imagination could’ve kept the wolves at bay. Pure naivety I know. What do I know?
I was prompted to write this missive by something I did today. I chucked out a lot of old addresses, addresses scribbled on scraps of paper, index cards, torn from mailed envelopes and so on, addresses gathered over a score of years many of which have long since become redundant. I could never quite part with them as if they were charms of a sort that I might eventually put to use. Some were those of people I met briefly, shared a meal with, friends of friends I enjoyed enough to exchange names with but who I never saw again because we were all too busy to cook a meal and invite people over. Others were the names of art directors for magazines who might, if I’d been together enough to make them aware of my existence, have hired me to do an illustration. Their names sitting in a cardboard box in a corner of my studio reminded me of the communications I hadn’t formed. Getting rid of them is a relief. May those I briefly befriended forgive me. Better to be a memory than a scrap of neglected paper. Anyway that is the confessional part. It is a weight off. I briefly considered creating a piece out of all those addresses and calling it “We Did Meet Once”, or creating a really spectacular screen printed limited edition postcard and sending it to all the addresses I had even if I wasn’t sure the person or persons were still at the given address or job. I think it might’ve felt cathartic. As it is I feel a little bit sad.
I’ll go paint.