Desperation Blip

Return to the Art World

Emily had couriered her works to the gallery in advance of the exhibition where they would remain unopened until she made an appearance. First she spent a couple of weeks reacquainting herself with her studio in Cornwall, and doing some reorganisation to fit her new found confidence. In some ways she was afraid to make the trip to London, but in others she was quite looking forward to it. As her train was coming in to Paddington she felt a sort of unsettling g familiarity. As she came out of the station she was greeted by the chaos of the city. The constant rush of people. The cacophony of voices. The interminable traffic noise. The feeling of being wrapped in the concrete of the buildings. After the months spent in the village, where everything, including time, moved at a slower more gentle pace the energy of the city was almost foreign, overwhelming. Taking a deep breath she went in search of a taxi.

The gravity of her return hit her all at once. It wasn’t the crowds or the noise, it was the pressure, the expectations that she thought were all behind her now. The exhibition was only weeks away now. Although Emily had a body of work of which she was personally proud all of the old anxieties were bubbling just below the surface – threatening. What would the reception be? Would people understand the shift in her work? Would collectors appreciate her new direction? As quickly as these questions/doubts came into her mind she banished them. Back in the village she had made herself the promise that she wasn’t going to paint for anyone but herself anymore. Her London flat was just as she had left it neat and minimalist, with some of her older works on the walls, all geometric lines and cold precision. Now it felt strange – almost as if she was stepping into someone else’s life. This was everything that had once defined Emily’s career, a career that now seemed so distant, disconnected from the artist she had now become. That artist had been hungry for success. For approval. For recognition. Always chasing the next article in an art magazine, the next exhibition, the next sale. The woman standing here now was very different. Such things no longer concerned Emily. Now she had discovered something much deeper, truer. She could easily allow the city to pull her back into its orbit. But she was determined to maintain her hold on the clarity, the freedom, that she had fought so hard to reclaim.

The next morning she took a taxi to the gallery. One of the most prestigious in London, a minimalist modern space, sleek with white walls and polished floors, all of which seemed to be designed to absorb sound and to create an almost reverent silence. Emily had spent many years establishing a relationship with the gallery, and it was the nucleus of her career. As she entered she felt none of the excitement or nerves that she usually experienced. Now she was no longer here to impress, she was here to show the world who she had now become. Daniel, the gallery owner, greeted her with his usual warmth, but now with an added flicker of curiosity. She had sent him photos of her new works, but he had yet to experience them in the flesh, so to speak.
‘So,’ he said, half teasing half serious ‘you’ve gone off and reinvented yourself.’
‘Something like that.’ She said with a smile.

Daniel led her to the main exhibition space that was awaiting the paintings from her sojourn in the village. As they walked into it Emily’s mind was buzzing with how her work would fit in this structured, pristine environment. The works she had brought back were so different. These works were raw, tactile, even messy, so far removed from the clean, precise, orderly pieces that defined her previous exhibition here. She had thoughts about how these new works would look in the gallery’s stark lighting, would the textures lose their depth, their energy. Emily shook her head, she was no longer trying to fit in a mould, no longer trying to please anyone but herself. Now her work would speak for itself.

Finally the crates arrived. Emily felt a familiar jolt of anticipation as her new works were carefully unpacked and unwrapped. There before them the bold strokes of colour, the layers of texture that she had created back in the village. Daniel’s expression changed from one of polite curiosity to something far deeper, surprise perhaps, even admiration. He said little as they moved from piece to piece but noted the dramatic shift in Emily’s style that was unfamiliar to him.
‘These are… …different.’ He said standing in front of a larger canvas.
It was the piece she had created during her breakthrough, the piece that had unlocked everything she had been seeking. There again were the thick sweeping layers of paint all mixed with sand and bits of clay. All of this made the canvas almost sculptural with a texture so visceral that it seemed to be demanding to be touched.
‘They’re more alive,’ she replied softly ‘they’re not about perfection sand precision anymore. They are about movement, about letting go.’
Daniel nodded as he absorbed her words.
‘They feel wild, unrestrained, emotional. Yes, there’s a lot of emotion here.’
‘Exactly,’ she replied ‘that was what I had been missing.’

The weeks leading up to the exhibition passed in a haze of preparations. Emily spent her days in the gallery taking charge of the installation, making sure that each piece found its proper place in the space. As each painting found its own place on the walls she felt quietly satisfied. The paintings didn’t just hang, their vibrant colours and textures seemed to break through the sterility of the environment and command attention. Here was the story of her journey, not just the landscape that inspired, but of the emotion that had brought this body of work into existence. For the first time in years Emily did not feel it necessary to explain her work, there was also no desire to pre-emptively defend it. She had no concern about whether any of the critics would embrace this shift in style, or whether, or not, the collectors would understand it. This work was hers. That was enough. She fully understood that there would be those who would think the transformation was too drastic. Too messy. Too far removed from the style that made her successful. For the first time she didn’t care. This was her work. This work was a reflection of her true self, and that authenticity was all that mattered to her.

***

Pre-exhibition night arrived. The gallery was alive with the usual pre-show excitement. Invitations had gone out to friends, collectors, critics and curious newcomers. As they arrived the room gradually came alive with the low buzz of their conversations. Emily stood at the entrance watching people as they moved around the space, observing their reactions as they encountered her new work. She had been aware that there would be expressions of surprise, quiet mutterings, and furrowed brows as people took in the boldness of the works. It became quite clear that this had not been what they expected from her. As the evening progressed Emily felt a deep calmness settle on her. Gone was the old anxiety. There was none of that desperate need for approval. She was very good at eavesdropping on the conversations around her without being invested in the opinions being voiced. For the first time she felt that she was able to stand back and let her work speak for itself. She did not feel the need to explain it, or to justify it.

Toward the end of the evening Daniel approached her with a smile and a glass of wine.
‘You’ve done it.’ his voice filled with admiration ‘You’ve created something uniquely your own.’
Emily smiled with a deep-seated sense of commitment settling on her/
‘It took a while, but I got there in the end.’
Daniel nodded
‘People are talking. They’re surprised, but in a good way. This is bold and different. You are not going to make everyone happy, but the ones who get it - they really get it.’
She looked around the room, at the faces of those studying her works. Daniel was right. Not everyone would comprehend this transformation. But that no longer mattered. Emily wasn’t here to make people happy - she was here to. Share her truth. The evening was coming to a close as she stepped outside for a quiet moment of solitude. Looking at the city lights, for the first time since her return she felt at peace here. She had seemingly brought the village back with her. Maybe not in a literal sense but in the sense of freedom that she had found there. In the emotional sense that she had found the courage to discard the past and create without fear.

This exhibition was just the beginning. A new chapter. Emily was fully aware that here journey as an artist was far from at an end. Standing there in the cold night air she was ready. She had found her voice. This time she wasn’t afraid to use it. Yes, she was ready for whatever came next.