9.10 am: The great French mine artist Marcel Marceau, as part of his stage routine, (‘pretended’ is the wrong word) made one believe that he was walking against a strong wind. ‘I can do this too’, I thought, as my body pushed in the direction of town through a resistant invisible force that parted before me like a reluctant Red Sea. My appointment was with ‘Dickie Snips’ (as he’s known at the art school), the hairdresser. 10.00 am: Afterwards, I pressed down Terrace Road towards the Promenade, which was now cordoned off by the Police. The town had experienced a tidal surge overnight. High-tide had hit around 9.30 am. This was the storm at its worst. Such noise and ferocity. I and everyone else who was watching – admiringly, respectfully – had a choice, as we were buffeted and tottered on our heels. We could either turn away and seek shelter, or else face it down in the realisation that, however uncomfortable and frightening it felt to stand against the tummolt, the storm made us feel more alive:
10.15 pm: At my desk to sift through incoming mail and its implications. 10.40 am: I returned to the mix of the ‘covert’ project, and began preparing a final mixdown for upload to my sound site:
This composition will not be publicly accessible yet. For various reasons, it may never be. On this occasion, the title came at the every end of the process of composition. I was searching for something that both reflected the referents evoked by the painting and captured an autobiographical moment. The finished work came from a place that I’d not accessed before. I suspect that’s because the door had never before been opened. Until recently, neither I nor anyone else that I’d known had the key. I’ve never made anything that so powerfully and precisely articulated a state of heart and mind. This is not, in itself, an indication of quality, but, rather, of deep, personal significance. (One ought never to confuse the two.)
1.40 pm: The house was punched by gusts of strong wind. The rain upon the studio’s Velux window sounded curiously like those gritty and annoying digital artefacts that can enter into a mix. At times, I wasn’t sure whether it was the weather or the composition that was causing them. Somehow, I persuaded myself that the noise emanating from my far right and above my ear line was, instead, coming out of the monitors in front of me. (The power of self-delusion: confusing expectation with reality.) I remember, once, getting rather vexed (to put it politely) trying to locate the source of a ‘hum’ that was bugging my guitar amplifier and pedalboard rig. When I, after a fruitless hour of cable changing, pedal swapping, mains checking, and pickup pondering, turned off the gear, I could hear the drone of a vacuum cleaner that one of my son’s was wielding outside my studio door. (The source of a problem may not always be intrinsic to the field of action. A lesson for life.)
2.30 pm: Back to the Turn Table material. I’ll break into piece again on Monday. Mid afternoon. 3.45 pm: My elder son returned and a late birthday celebration began. Time out, for now.
‘Moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain’ (Roy Batty, Blade Runner (1982)):
An aside: Stories of surrender: