My drawings are looking a little bruised and tender, the red seems to dash out ahead of the yellow and smear itself all over.

The garden has been full of the first peas. They are very special.

I moved all the strawberry plants the other day to stop them strangling the broad beans, and now they all look very sad. I am not sure they will forgive me.  I have grown too much sweetcorn, not enough okra and all manner of other things.

I went to Sheffield to make some work. I filled a sketchbook with thoughts and little things that seemed important. I am starting to recognise that the importance of a practice is for ones own sustinance, something nice to get your teeth into. It sort of doesn’t matter if it exists anywhere else outside of this. In some ways this is very reassuring. Saying that sometimes I don’t feel like I have a practice at all, and other times I feel that is all I have. I keep starting films and then not editing them. It is too involved in some ways. I keep meaning to write to [] to ask her how to keep making work, but I suspect by asking that I am sort of admiting that I am not. Perhaps my identity as an artist suffers. I am trying to present something that I am unable to articulate. Kind friends always offer me space to make work, I should take them up on it more. Lots of things aren’t just enough for me, and I haven’t really tried very hard enough at all to go beyond this. Kind words would be appreciated. I wave a white flag. The ship sinks. Mayday. All are lost (except you perhaps)

Wow

(Source: blue-voids, via gutmeat)