Oil on Board
24" x 32"
WIP

24.01.2008

I'm walking into town. The easel is heavy, the board, bigger than usual, adds to the weight and I have to constantly shift it from arm to arm. As I swing the easel around in front of me the board briefly squares up across the pavement and I hear a sudden curse from behind me. The cyclist swerves to avoid my manoeuvres and manages to stay upright - just. A close call. Too close - I've got a bad feeling about today. (When did it become okay to ride bikes on the pavement?)

I continue up along Queen Square. I'm not thinking straight - head's fuzzy - maybe I'm just trying to think of what I'm going to write in this blog, maybe. I pass a familiar face and for an embarassing period I can't place her - we're out of context. And then it clicks, a neighbour and I smile and say hello but struggle still to find words through the fog. She rescues me with a question about where I'm going and we're okay - brief exchange and then move on. Strike two - definitely going to be a bad day.

Milsom Street - here we go. Time to suck it big boy. I walk down to the wide paved area at the bottom of the hill planning to stand next to a handy solid wall that doesn't block any shop front. I'm out of luck as some market stall holder selling his multi-coloured wellies has set up before me. I could tuck myself into a doorway next to Russell and Bromley, but the angle isn't good. No, there's nothing else for it - I'm going to have to stand out in the open, in the middle of the pavement. The familiar nerves start churning in the pit of my stomach, but sod it - I've been warming up for this for too long.

I set up the easel - once again I've executed some rapid repairs and the problems of last week shouldn't reoccur. The masking tape is still holding. And look there's the bird shit that I still haven't got around to cleaning off. Ha - and one leg is still shorter than the other where the foot snapped off in London. We've been through a bit - my old easel and me. It was second hand when I got it and needed some repairs even then - five years ago or whenever. And, get this, (drum roll for the big reveal) it was Pete's easel. Swapped it for a now, well obsolete portable telly. Feeling confessional (and a bit embarassed by my miserly whinging last week about the price of brushes) not only is the easel one of Pete's cast off, but so are all my brushes.

So there you have it. I've got Pete's easel and Pete's brushes and I'm painting in Pete's spot. It's all too clear - deep down - I can't hide from it - I must want to be Pete the Street. Ah, but I can't claim the title of the original, a pale imitation, more apt maybe is Ben the Pete. Can it be? Was I really so blind all along? The questions whizz around my head as I set up and start to paint. I find myself surprisingly calm. Is this the power of the Pete? I don't know, maybe it's my new found confidence with the bigger paintings - even despite getting all the angles wrong.

Hey look - there's Darcey Bussell, busking over there. She looks a bit chilly in her tutu, but the leg warmers must be helping. She's doing improv ballet. I wave over at her and she smiles back - she can't wave because her arms are striking a pose. Sorry Darcey - didn't mean it about your singing. You're the best.

I have reassessed my singing standards. Having started learning to play the guitar (and naturally singing along) I find myself having to whisper the lyrics to avoid grimaces and wincing from anyone in the vicinity.

This funny little kid comes by with a strange blue hat. He sees me and scowls, hurrying along past me. He pauses in front of Darcey to toss a coin in her upturned hat before continuing on his way, but not without another glance and scowl in my direction.

The black van sitting in the middle of my composition refuses to move. It's colder than I thought it was going to be and my stamina quickly wains. As I start to pack up two things happen:

1. A tramp comes up and talks to me. He regales me with tales of his travels to St Ives (It's too overrun now - not like it used to be), his past (Lurid and keeps him warm at night), Europe (Not like it used to be - can't kip under an olive tree anymore), politics (back in the day he gave it to Tony Blair and Maggie Thatcher), and many other things besides. In between the tales he accosts a passing Big Issue seller - 'Don't conform - you're only playing their game' - no idea what he means by this. He obviously doesn't conform though, with his floppy hat held on, bonnet-like, by three colourful ties.
2. The black van moves.

It's a conspiracy - everything's against me. But. I quite like the painting. Maybe the day wasn't that bad after all.