1st August, 2025
Woke up at 2:47pm with a hangover and a mouth that felt like I’d been licking sandpaper. The studio was thick with heat and turpentine; the fan’s broken again, just hums like it’s trying to remember how to turn. I lay there staring at the water stains on the ceiling, tracing faces in them. One of them looked like my mother. Another like that girl in the caff.
Last night I tried to finish the painting I’ve been avoiding for weeks—the one with the girl and the cigarette and the look like she’s already left the room. I added a stroke of ochre across her cheek and immediately hated it. Scraped it back down to canvas. Again and again. Sometimes I think I only paint to have something to destroy.
Got a message from a gallery intern in Berlin who “loves the rawness” of my work and wants to show it in their “emergent artists” group show. They’re offering “exposure.” I told them to expose themselves to traffic. Didn’t send it, obviously. Just thought it.
Rents due. I have £16 in my account. I’ve stopped checking it. The landlord texted a question mark, just that. Cryptic and menacing. Art dealer as haiku.
Saw Jules outside the café on Rye Lane. She asked if I was still painting “that heartbreak stuff.” I laughed. Said it’s all heartbreak, even the abstracts. She looked tired, beautiful. Said I should come to her gig. I probably won’t. People make too much noise now. I can’t tell if I’m getting old or just giving up.
The sky looked like it was about to fall open tonight—burnt peach and acid pink, like it was bleeding out. I took a photo. Deleted it. Didn’t feel real enough.
I still haven’t named the painting. Maybe I won’t. Maybe it’ll just stay unfinished, like everything I try to love.
-X
