10 years ago, almost to the day, I found myself on the rooftop garden of a penthouse appartment in downtown Manhattan. 3am, beautiful company, bottle of champagne, views up both sides of the Hudson and just the WTC towering above us. "How the fuck did I get here?" I wondered. "How the fuck did this happen to me?". It wasn't what my life was supposed to be. Just a couple of months earlier I was sleeping on sofas of friends and family in the Black Country. Nothing wrong with the Black Country, it's just that it's about as different as life can get to NY as far as city living goes.
And, today, I find myself working in a dream studio - a funky modernist building. A huge space losely reflecting the bridge of a ship with 280 degree windows centered on a NE aspect. Views across the bay of Santander. A 7 Meter x 3 Meter canvass streched out before me. Quality free meals (fresh off the boat haddock in a rich cream sauce with peas - food doesn't get any more perfect in my book). Free drinks. Materials and paints all supplied. A dream job in a dream studio. I suspect this is actually as good as an artist's life can get. "How the fuck did I get here?". It's not what my life was supposed to be!
It's fucking good mind, and you won't catch me complaining. Hoping I can make it last through the summer. It won't last forever. I know that. Make hay whilst the sun shines. My life is lacking very little at the moment, but sometimes the little things are the biggest and most important. Not that I'm complaining. Yet.