Time of estrangement

Some time in the past in Camden, when I first knew Diane...

Diane was a corporate artist, a graphic designer whose work was sought after by London's most prominent ad agencies. She never ran short of work or money. I, on the other hand, was a struggling artist. Struggling to get out of bed. Struggling to pay the rent. Struggling to do anything that approached art.

Still, when I first met Diane, the differences in our income and usefulness didn't seem to matter. Our days were guided by the lights of imagination. We would fill up whole evenings just talking, and with words alone, transport ourselves to far off places, dreaming of bright futures.

Sometimes we would take out Diane's drawing kit and make tapestries on long rolls of paper, etching characters and events as we went, pacing time with glasses of wine, bowls of chilli, marijuana joints on the unfurled story. Our spills and stains became imprints of history. The next morning I’d carefully roll up the paper and fix it with tape, recording the date and placing it on the shelf next to the others.

One night Diane suggested that we draw our own story. We etched with the poise and consideration of Roman gods. Moving our hands of fate embroidering our lives with the vicissitudes and narrative of story-worthy souls, not avoiding the difficulties as pure young dreamers do: we drew scenes of jealousy, poverty, false-pregnancy, pregnancy, break-ups, reunions, marriage and tragedy (our dog dies -this was pre-Kitler). Reaching the end of the roll we had the two of us walk on into the future. Around this scene, Diane sketched beautiful swirls of blue and gold like Van Gough's Starry Night. Later, we decided that we’d mount the tapestry around my living room. We gave it a glass framing and stencilled olive and wine leaves above and below its placing. We painted the stencilled foliage deep forest green against the mustard yellow of the wall.

We envisaged many things in those days, but not a time of estrangement living in a foreign country. One of us on a mountainside. The other in a city.

On this journey here, we've both changed so much. Now, Diane's a real artist. And me?

I, too, am beginning to find my way...

Solutions # 35: All good things come to end. Rescue good memories from the prison cell of chronological history.