New Work: Fuller Series
I recently had a nasty shock. I saw a photo of my friend on Facebook, talking about himself in the third person, saying that he had died. After reading it 4 more times, I realised that it wasn’t written by him.
This friend had only just hit his mid thirties. He was fit and witty and we had spent a lot of good times making music together (like this):
He left to cycle to work one day but never arrived. He was an experienced cyclist. He was wearing a helmet. He did everything right. It didn't matter. He's gone.
We had a memorial for him and it was done just right. He would have liked it. It was in the backyard of some of his closest friends. There was a spit roast and beer on tap. We had an open mic and everyone took it in turns to share their stories of how they'd met him, their most ridiculous and fun memories. We laughed together through our tears. It was a good thing we did this.
Yet, once I got home, I was left feeling so angry and impotent. I didn't know what to do with myself. I got my art stuff out, not because I thought I could make anything good, but because I had to move my body, I had to do something, anything. I didn't know what to do with myself. I was feeling heavy and hopeless.
I made 3 pieces that night. I made layers and layers and layers until I couldn't look at them anymore. Since then, I've gone back to them several times, and picked out details and added more light. Because that was what he brought us, and what I'll remember. He was always entertained by things that appeared a bit messy or organic on the surface but contained logic in their structure.
You are sorely missed, Al. We won't forget you.
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