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Mediocrities

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A recent incident has finally prompted me into making this journal visible to friends only.

Thank you so much.


Works

Dapplegrim
This is just a note to point readers out to the sidebar for entries containing some of my recent and/or larger works (such as whole illustrated books, exhibitions, etc).  This is a provisional list and will be updated as new projects are completed, but also to add older ones that may be worth mentioning.  I also hope eventually to add a list of links to various other smaller projects; both published and personal, so to provide a kind of artwork archive, which should hopefully save readers the trouble of seeking them out by sifting through the entries.    For the present, clicking the 'Artwork' tag should lead you to the majority of these (assuming I haven't forgotten to tag some entries with it!).

Thank you.


In Haste

Portrait
Please forgive this very hasty and not too edifying update. Someone on Twitter has been plagiarising my words and posting a number of my entries from this journal and elsewhere as her own, including some deeply personal ones. Please see this for more details. 

Henceforth, all content here will be visible to friends only. I will also be gradually making my old entries likewise, though this will take some time. Not that that matters a great deal now, as it would be locking the stable door after the horse has bolted somewhat. 

Mar. 29th, 2012

DulacDream
One's first words upon opening one's eyes each morning ought not to be 'I want to die'.

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Sense and Sensibility Book Launch

Portrait



I will be at the Celebrating Jane Austen event as part of the Bath Festival of Children's Literature on Wednesday 28th September to launch the publication of the bicentenary edition of Sense and Sensibility, and will be signing copies of the book.  The main event itself will be a discussion about Austen with a panel of enthusiasts, chaired by writer, teacher and passionate Austenite, Katharine Reeve.  Tickets for the event are £5.  For further details and to book, please visit the Bath Box Office.  

If anyone is interested and able to attend, do introduce yourself; it would be lovely to see you!


Dreams of the Past Few Nights

Avenue
Last Night.


The train drew towards my station and I bade goodbye to my friends; they do not exist in reality, or at least, I do not remember their faces, but they were friends in the dream.  It was an old-fashioned train, with cabins within which the seats faced each other, and doors which had to be manually opened.  I alighted with a skip -- almost a dance -- carrying a brief spell of contentment.  The train drove off.  We waved.  I seemed to still be whirling lightly on the platform.  Then I stopped abruptly and the contentment vanished in an instant.  Among a thick screen of trees was one -- or perhaps several -- directly facing me, whose leaves had turned gold and were rapidly falling.  Some branches were already bare.  The tree (or several) was glowing with a wan light.  It was beautiful, but I felt so dreadfully, desperately sad.   




Two Nights Ago.


I seemed to be back in university again.  I find myself there quite often of late.  But it wasn't the same place; never quite the place I knew.  And each time I return, I find myself more at ease.  The other students were less fearful.  I was less remote, less afraid.  Each time, it felt as though I had gradually atoned for something, and yet it also felt as though I had begun afresh.  This time, I felt myself among friends.  Our tutor was playing a game with the group, I think it was a kind of word disassociation game.  Each student called out the name of another once they had had their turn.  I was painting during this -- just a small, quick painting.  When my turn came, I found myself unable to play, but instead, I immediately made a remark which made the whole group laugh.  And I laughed.  I finished the painting: a flock of swallows, with a few butterflies among them.  The student next to me -- who felt like a friend then too -- turned to say that it was beautiful.  And even I could feel that it was.




Three or Four Nights Ago.


Marc had made a mosaic.  A huge, larger than life size mosaic of a Tyrannosaurus on the floor of some grand building.  I think the building had vaulted arches, though it wasn't a church.  There were palms and a fountain, and it was very quiet.  Perhaps it was a recreation of the Crystal Palace.  Marc had gone to sleep after completing it.  The mosaic was so big, I had a little push scooter upon which I trundled from one end to the other as I made a tour of it.  It was beautiful.  I remember the gradations of tone and impressions of scales created by the placement of little tiles.  Not all of them were square.  Some had been cut into different shapes to fit each other.  Some of the tiles were made of mother of pearl and agate.  I trundled back and suddenly found Marc inspecting his work, rather ponderously.  Then he said he had to leave.  






Sales and Severity

Yerko17

I was sent this first piece of promotion for Sense and Sensibility this evening, so I thought I would share it together with this detail of Marianne which they used.




There is also to be an event centered around the theme of illustrating Austen at the Holburne Museum in Bath in late November, to which I will be contributing; and possibly another one elsewhere before that in September.  I will post more details as I have them.

Unfortunately, with these exciting news come some other vexing ones.  I am soon to begin work on Rudyard Kipling's Just So Stories for the Folio Society, which I'm very much looking forward to.  The deadline for which is May 2012, and my impression had been that I could complete it, then move on to Pride and Prejudice, which is scheduled for its bicentenary in 2013.

Alas; my agent, Palazzo, and I had all got our wires crossed. P&P's bicentenary is in February 2013, which means that Palazzo are aiming for publication in November 2012, to make the Christmas market.  In short, this now means that from now to May, I am going to have to work on both books at the same time. This would be nothing to other illustrators far superior to myself who are accustomed to working on four books at once, but for stupid me the pressure will be... considerable, shall we say. Particularly as Just So Stories is to be another limited edition, like the Rubáiyát. Then there is that silly notion I gave myself of redeeming my earlier P&P efforts by doing the very best I can this time round. Silly, not because redeeming myself is unwarranted, but because I'm going to drive myself quite mad again. Did I mention that I'd also been nursing a hope of making Just So my best work so far, too? I suppose I had better relinquish all such thoughts at once.

*Bangs head on desk*

 

It Is Not a Word

Yerko6
It is not a word spoken,
Few words are said;
Nor even a look of the eyes
Nor a bend of the head,

But only a hush of the heart
That has too much to keep,
Only memories waking
That sleep so light a sleep.



Sara Teasdale
 

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