Hidden details
A second voice memo from the edge
I speak to you from my own bathroom, after another haphazard week of doing everything and anything but writing.
Ironically, this was going to be the week where I stopped all the boring-but-necessary weekly things and instead tackled everything I keep putting off (pitching freelance pieces, lugging the duvets to the laundromat, cleaning my mascara wand with isopropyl alcohol, writing a newsletter, staring into the abyss) as my family were heading to the South Island to visit my in-laws for six days. The original plan was that I’d sit this one out, stay home, and save us a fortune on kennel fees.
But Maddie got sick, and we couldn’t expose her grandparents to a nasty winter bug. So she’s with me at home, along with two builders, possibly one electrician, the cat and dog; and domestic tasks are piling up, because I’m the least organized of anyone in primary charge of their household (you’d think I’d have got the hang of it by now, but no - if I’m not out of laundry powder, I’m out of pet food; the towels are somehow all crunchy, and I haven’t matched a tub to a lid in ten years). So, the circus continues, the big top stays up, and the lion paces its cage.
The hammering has momentarily stopped upstairs. Have you ever walked into your bedroom to find a gaping space where your window used to be? This has happened to me three times now. Removing the glazing and jemmying off the frame has widened the window’s perspective. It’s a bit like lifting a thick frame off a painting. Hidden details are exposed and the view, like a canvas, assumes a different personality. You look at it with a new respect. Not that I’ll have much time to savour it; the builders are about to lever the new window in.
It makes me think of that startling discovery a few days ago of a hidden self-portrait by the coalminer turned painter, Norman Cornish. It had been painted on the back of another of his paintings, but covered by a frame, purchased by a museum and hidden for more than 60 years.
I don’t understand why museums don’t immediately inspect inside every frame and check the back of every canvas. It feels like overlooking the easiest gifts history will ever hand us. Unrelated, may I also mention what a spunk Norman was?
This whole thing has made me want to read more about the pit painters. The McFalls came from miners; my Grandad dodged the pits, leaving Newcastle for Peterborough in his youth to seek better opportunities. He ended up spending his working life amid searing heat, casting moulds in a metal foundry; he had black hair that lopped over one side, like Norman. Grandad had an allotment, I remember; but I wonder if he ever drew. I’ll never know.
Anyway, this little recording ends abruptly. I was suddenly attacked by embarrassment, thinking who DOES this? It feels deeply self-involved, and I had to stop quickly. I can’t examine my motives for writing or recording too closely, as I imagine they are wildly embarrassing (am I lonely? A narcissist? Do I have too little confidence, or too much?). But I do want you to know that I’m thinking about you (and by extension, us), and would rather send you a message - perhaps hidden within a message - than give you nothing at all.
*For international readers (hi, Elaine!), when I mention toetoe, I mean feathery grass, similar to this. It’s totally what Otto’s tail looks like.
If it makes you feel any better Leah, because solidarity in numbers, I'm pretty confident I could rival you in the domestic deficiency stakes. No need to examine your motivations for sharing too hard, I'm a happy audience for it. Keep it up!
Keep this up. You make the mundane sound almost exotic 🤣