Here’s my driftwood. joining the swatches.
It’s hard to learn anew how to make it through from dawn to dark without all the props and pointers inside my father’s house. Without plant-watering, yard-pottering, chair-rocking and channel-zapping, I expected it would be exciting; I expected that the freedom from routine was somehow greater than the freedom to determine your own routine. I wanted to get up in the morning and not know exactly what I was going to do that day. But now that I don’t, it’s terrifying.
— Sara Baume, Spill Simmer Falter Wither (2015; Mariner Books, 2017) : 131
see Interview / Sara Baume: ‘I always wanted to be an art monster’
The author recalls her youthful dreams of a Turner prize victory and the run-in with doctors that led to her second novel
Alex Clark, The Guardian (18 February 2017)
Here’s my driftwood. I prefer the pieces with swatches of crackled paint. I bring them home and nail them to the yellow walls, each abutting the next, joining the swatches. I think of it as a colossal jigsaw, an abstract assemblage of infinite proportions, and sometimes I wonder if, along with his overlong feet, my father bestowed on me his restless compulsion for remaking.
pottering not puttering; “current reading” my (poor) excuse.