01.05.2026
It was close to the time of sleep. When we are closest to death while we breathe. Weariness was creeping in. But there was A. to talk with. Always A.
This was the first day of my study holiday from work. To complete a degree in Art History through my dissertation. The morning began with taking a lady with me to the ‘Sea and Seurat’ exhibition at the Courtauld Art Gallery, an event I had booked several weeks ago. The artist had been obsessed with the sea and the light upon it. Water that gleamed. The paintings, I noted, had been enabled by the advances in rail travel at the time.
Afterwards, it was a complimentary photo shoot that I had given to a client to build up both of our portfolios. I had actually just finished editing up the shots and sending them down to him. This was followed by the Stubbs horse exhibition at the National Gallery after lunch in the park behind Holborn Station (Lincoln Fields). Stubbs wanted to be anatomically correct, an exercise I find completely pointless as an artist. But then, I have photography to be accurate, art to be imprecise and imaginative. I live in an advanced technological age.
When I had finished the contemplation of all of those glistening flanks of horse, I met up with a friend at the guitar recital at Saint Sepulchre near Holborn Viaduct followed by photos of Nathaniel the young musician which I shared on my photography account. On arriving home, the dissertation, a long shower and then eating the family bbq and booking some weekend tickets for myself and my girlfriend and a friend.
I had spent most of the evening thinking about Indian art in Britain and most of the day in the world of art, spectator, scholar and practitioner. It was an art life. A connected life with a girlfriend and friends. There had been an unexpected message from a good friend of many years too after a while. It was a good first day for a study break.
diary of a lone man 