Whenever creative
loneliness occurs, July emptiness, January blank, I turn to ‘Miró in his Studio’.
He sits there, surrounded by works in progress. I bought the ageless book in
swishy Waterstones in Dublin in 1996. Photographs of Joan Miró’s tables of
found objects: lead weights, scallop shells, pinecones. I meditate on tins of
brushes and paint-accreted benches. Philip Hunter said the studio is where we
belong. Meaning, the artworld is nonsense, just keep to work. “Miró with his
biro,” he jested with an eye-rhyme. Waiting, I open a page on a bookstand for days:
black figures, watery air, full-scale sunlight.
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