For artists who are getting on a bit, like me, (65 and a half) there’s a constant niggle in the back of our minds. Particularly if we have started falling apart here and there. I find myself not thinking I am disabled, but I do tick the box on the form that says “long-standing health condition”. Before I had my left knee joint replaced, I was considerably more disabled than I have been since. But recently, in the last month or so, I find my right knee feels just like my left one did maybe three years ago.

I do not want to be known as a Disabled Artist. I just want to be an artist. But the thing is, I am hampered by my physical state sometimes. This goes up and down. Sometimes I’m ok, sometimes, really quite immobile. The immobility is not just a physical thing, but psychological too. In the last few weeks, from being almost sprightly, I am using a walking stick again. So my confidence for getting out and about has returned fairly rapidly to the pre-surgery state. I have started planning everything again. Spontaneity has gone.

I have an outing planned to meet Kate Murdoch in London and do some gallery visits. Until then I am forcing myself to go gently and rest, hoping that the pain will subside and I’ll be able to do it justice. I will be seeing the doctor about better pain relief than paracetamol. I am determined, so I’m sure it’ll be ok. I can rest again after.

I have probably gone into more detail there than I wanted or needed to, but I wanted to provide some context.

I see that pain leaks out into my work. As does frustration, anger, and a huge sadness that after nearly 18 months of feeling fairly fit, I am slumped again. Drawing provides relief while I am working, but then when I straighten up and try to get up and walk, I have to go very slowly, and use my stick. The bad language fills the air with a deep aura of Prussian blue.

The drawings themselves are gnarled and anxious looking. Parts of me feel brittle like the sticks I draw. My skin dry and coarse with a metaphorical layer of lichen growing imperceptibly slowly, but growing nonetheless.

I love these drawings. But they’re not happy. They are surreal, strange … uncanny? They are connected to me both physically and mentally. So much of my time currently spent thinking about how to get from one place to another;  how long to stay in one place; how long I can stand; how far can I walk? It’s no wonder it is leaking into my work.

(I forgot to take the photos, so I’ll add them at some point over the next few days)