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Day Six – a Victorian Artist and his Steam Unicycle

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Day Six – a Victorian Artist and his Steam Unicycle

From the Journals of Basil Bromley

Entry the Sixth , 19th of May, 1873

I quitted Truro under a sky of polished pewter, the air sharp with that peculiar tang which seems a herald of rain yet seldom fulfils its promise. My landlady bade me farewell with a look of mingled pity and suspicion, as though releasing a lunatic back upon the roads.

The journey north proved alternately exhilarating and exasperating. The Steam Unicycle, freshly stoked, displayed a most eager temper, fairly bounding forward with each stroke of the piston. Yet the roads conspired against speed: lanes so narrow that hedges brushed my elbows, ruts that might swallow a cartwheel, gradients that mocked all calculation. I advanced in fits, sometimes at a clip that startled even myself, sometimes reduced to near immobility, as if the machine sulked at the indignities imposed upon it.

At one such pause, whilst replenishing the boiler from a roadside pump, I fell into discourse with a schoolmaster, black-coated and bespectacled, who was walking to an appointment in a neighbouring parish. He examined my unicycle gravely, then declared: “Sir, you illustrate to perfection the triumph of absurdity over reason.”

I thanked him, observing that reason, when universally obeyed, yields nothing novel; absurdity, at least, grants us surprise. He bowed,ironically, I think,and walked on, leaving me with the distinct sense that I had been simultaneously mocked and praised.

Shortly thereafter, I was beset by a gang of boys who followed me for half a mile, chanting, “Silly Billy!” and “Tea-kettle! Tea-kettle!” Their chorus, though vexing, lent a kind of rhythm to the journey, so that I almost regretted when they dropped away at the edge of their village. I reflected that perhaps the true measure of an invention lies not in its utility but in the songs it provokes.

By late afternoon I reached the approaches of Bodmin, and here calamity nearly struck. Descending a hill, I discovered the brake-lever reluctant to engage. The machine gathered a head of steam with alarming alacrity, and I began to fear that my epitaph would be written in a fast approaching hedgerow. By some providence, the gradient softened before disaster, and I coasted to a halt with only a scorched glove and a heart pounding like a trip-hammer. I spent an hour tightening the mechanism.

Tonight I lodge in Bodmin. The innkeeper, a genial fellow, begged me to demonstrate the machine to his assembled patrons in the yard. They cheered lustily when it emitted a jet of steam, though one man cried out that I ought to patent it for use against invading Frenchmen. I retire, therefore, both amused and weary, my contraption stabled once again among creatures who surely despise it.

Thus concludes the sixth day. I feel myself, despite bruises and jeers, drawing ever deeper into the strange companionship of this single wheel. It may yet kill me,but I feel more and more certain that I will survive.

Storror, Parkour and the Aesthetics of Urban Transgression

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Storror and the Aesthetics of Urban Transgression

Parkour , the art of moving through the city with maximum speed and economy , arrived in the public imagination as a kind of kinetic sublime: a human body negotiating the modernist geometry of steps, balustrades and façades with a grace and style that repurposes urban architecture. If, in the 1990s and early 2000s, the niche cinema of Jump London and Jump Britain gave freerunning a documentary halo, the UK collective Storror has, in the last decade and a half, translated that aura into a deliberate practice of image-making, brand formation and theatrical risk. Founded in 2010 by a core from Horsham and quickly consolidating into a seven-strong team , Max and Benj Cave, Drew Taylor, Toby Segar, the Powell brothers and Josh Burnett Blake , Storror self-fashioned as both performance troupe and media studio. 

To read Storror from an art-historical angle is to see them as heirs to several modern legacies at once: the Situationist dérive and psychogeography (the practice of drifting through the city to reveal hidden affects), Gordon Matta-Clark’s “anarchitecture” and his radical cuts into urban fabric, and Yves Klein’s performance gestures that turn the body into a metonym for a conceptual project (think Klein’s Leap into the Void). Where Matta-Clark physically excised and reconfigured space to reveal the contingency of architecture, Storror performs the inverse , re-inhabiting and re-narrativising already-constructed sites by putting the mobile body at their visible centre. Their rooftop runs, cliff plunges and dam races are not merely athletic feats: they operate as site-specific propositions that re-distribute the sensory register of place, insisting that urban surfaces be read as scores for choreographic intervention. (One might also invoke Walter Benjamin’s flâneur , now, however, mechanised with GoPros and drones , who does not simply stroll but negotiates spectacle.) 

The collective’s visual grammar is worth close attention. Storror’s films choreograph scale by alternating intimate POV shots with drone panoramas , a dialectic of immersion and overview that produces a peculiar epistemology of the city. These juxtapositions recall the modernist cinema’s oscillation between the subjective and the omniscient, but with a digital twist: the drone’s gaze is not the godlike eye of Eisenstein but a sympathetic camera that valorises skill as knowledge. Their longform documentary projects , including SuperTramps: Thailand and Roof Culture Asia , and their work on commercial film projects have extended parkour into a narrative field of documentary, travelogue and branded spectacle. 

There is a paradox at the heart of Storror’s practice that makes them a singular subject for contemporary aesthetics. On one hand, they celebrate the tactile, improvisatory intelligence of the body: training, repetition, and a kind of vernacular virtuosity that resists institutional capture. On the other, they are consummate producers of image economies: YouTube channels with millions of subscribers, monetised documentaries, collaborations with mainstream cinema. The Situationists warned against the colonising tendencies of spectacle; Storror embodies both the critique and its absorption. Their performances critique cities by revealing alternative uses of built form, but those revelations are themselves re-packaged and monetised within global attention markets. The result is an ambivalent art: emancipatory in gesture, commercial in circulation.

This ambivalence has ethical and political dimensions. Parkour’s iconography , islands of bravado on private rooftops, leaps over voids , can flirt with irresponsibility; controversies have followed, and Storror have had to navigate the consequences of highly visible stunts that brush up against public and protected spaces. The group has, at times, apologised for episodes that landed them in the crosshairs of public opinion, a reminder that the aesthetics of transgression are also regulated by legal and ecological frameworks. 

Seen through the prism of contemporary art theory, Storror’s work also forces a rethinking of the body as medium. Where performance art of the 1970s used endurance to contest institutional norms, Storror uses risk as a communicative strategy in an attention economy: the body signals authenticity because authenticity still registers as capital. Yet there is something stubbornly democratic in their visuality. Their videos are manifestos and travelogues: they invite adaptation and community-building across global parkour networks. In that sense they are less Duchampian readymade than pedagogical practice , a living curriculum for an aspirant urban movement.

Finally, there is an aesthetic pleasure that cannot be reduced to branding: the ecstatic choreography of a group moving as one across thresholds; the paradoxical stillness of the pause before a jump; the suspension of doubt mid-air. These are moments of what Jacques Rancière might call a re-distribution of the sensible, where what is visible (and socially legible) is remade by the skillful transposition of bodies and built environment. Storror’s films make us look twice at banal infrastructures , dam walls, alleyways, rooftops , and ask what else these surfaces could mean. That inquisitiveness, more than any subscriber statistic, is their most artful gift.

Storror’s uneasy diplomacy between insurgent practice and media fluency encapsulates a contemporary condition: the artist-athlete who both resists and leverages spectacle. In doing so they have evolved parkour from a subcultural practice into a form that is at once performative, cinematic and historically legible , a body of work that insists the city is always an artwork in waiting. 

Pot Pourri or Muesli: An Exhibition by Aurelius Kraft at Pimlico Wilde Central

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Pot Pourri or Muesli: An Exhibition by Aurelius Kraft at Pimlico Wilde Central

It is a rare occasion when a show compels its visitors to meditate equally on the breakfast table and the shrine. Yet Aurelius Kraft, the Berlin-born conceptual artist long resident in Hackney, has done precisely that in his latest exhibition Pot Pourri or Muesli, which opened this week at Pimlico Wilde Central in St James’s.

At first glance, the works consist of nothing more than a series of ceramic bowls, neatly arrayed upon linen-draped plinths. Each vessel contains a dry mixture of items, maybe flaked grains, seeds, dried fruit, petals, bark, or spice. Visitors are invited to wander the gallery and confront the challenge inscribed on the wall in stern sans serif:

“Pot Pourri or Muesli: Can you tell which nourishes and which perfumes?”

The game is disarmingly simple. One must decide, bowl by bowl, whether the contents are breakfast muesli or domestic pot pourri. Submissions are tallied electronically, and those who achieve the highest rate of correct identifications are awarded prizes at the close of each day: a small, hand-thrown bowl glazed by Kraft himself, or, for the most accurate, a year’s subscription to a “bespoke breakfast club” devised in collaboration with a Michelin-starred chef.

The conceit is humorous, but its implications are unexpectedly rich. By eroding the distinction between sustenance and ornament, Kraft asks what cultural frames make us regard one heap of oats and raisins as edible, and another heap of rose petals and clove as decorative. More unsettlingly, the viewer becomes aware that one’s confidence in classification is fragile; the boundary between consumption and display is not as solid as the morning cupboard suggests.

The most memorable piece, Bowl No. 9 (The Memory of Spice), contains a mixture that hovers uneasily between the categories. Lavender, rolled oats, candied peel, and something that might be cinnamon sit together in ambiguous harmony. I watched as a man in pinstripes confidently declared it “muesli” while a student beside him swore it was “pot pourri.” Both looked vaguely betrayed when the correct answer was revealed.

Kraft has long been preoccupied with the semiotics of the everyday. His earlier work Forks Without Plates (2017) invited audiences to eat soup without crockery, while Untitled (Apricot/Stone) (2020) arranged fruit pits in vitrines reminiscent of reliquaries. But Pot Pourri or Muesli feels sharper, more convivial, as though Kraft had decided to stage a parlour game in the heart of Westminster,and in doing so, to expose the quiet absurdities of daily life.

The exhibition rewards participation rather than passive observation; it is less a gallery show than a lightly competitive symposium. One leaves not with a secure taxonomy of dried petals and oats, but with a lingering sense of how thinly our rituals separate the sacred from the mundane. And perhaps with a complimentary packet of something indeterminate, half nourishment, half fragrance, slipped into one’s coat pocket by a smiling attendant.

Pot Pourri or Muesli runs at Pimlico Wilde Central until 26 November.

Meet the Artist: Jane Bastion

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Meet the Artist: Jane Bastion

Welcome to the first in our Meet the Artist series, where we step beyond the canvas, the stage, and the studio to explore the people behind the art. Today, we begin with someone whose creative output seems to live halfway between shadow and sound: Jane Bastion.

Jane doesn’t walk into a room,she drifts in, like a question you’re not sure how to answer. Known primarily for her evocative silhouette portraits and haunting musical tone poems, Jane’s work often lives at the intersection of quiet intensity and unresolved wonder. But who is she when she steps away from the paper and piano?

Outside the Frame

Despite the introspective, even brooding quality of her work, Jane herself is surprisingly warm and a little wickedly funny – she’ll quote an obscure 19th-century diarist in one breath and deliver a deadpan joke in the next. She lives in a small stone house tucked behind a row of beech trees somewhere in Dorset (though she refuses to share the precise location, joking, “Some of us need mystery the way others need vitamin D.”)

Her home smells faintly of beeswax and old books. There’s usually tea steeping,always black, never herbal,and something baking, though she claims not to enjoy cooking. “I cook only to avoid starving or speaking to strangers in supermarkets,” she says with a shrug.

She dresses like she was born in another era but has no interest in vintage trends – long linen skirts, heavy cardigans, and always something black. Never white. “White feels too loud,” she once said. You’ll never catch her in anything synthetic; she claims it interferes with her thinking. Most days, she wears soft leather boots and a tiny, tarnished silver pendant that no one has ever seen her remove.

Likes & Dislikes

She loves fog, fountain pens, and the sound of distant train whistles. She’s been known to stop conversations mid-sentence if a bird flies by – “Did you see that wingbeat?!” She’s fascinated by dreams, moss, shipwrecks, and the way light moves through stained glass.

She dislikes harsh lighting, hashtags, people who call art “content,” and when toast is sliced too thick. “Bread has a structure, you know. There’s a ratio. You can’t just ruin it with a dull knife.”

Where She Goes

Jane is a nomad of very specific destinations. She doesn’t travel broadly, but she travels deeply. She returns almost obsessively to the same handful of places: an abandoned pier in Whitby, a salt marsh in southern France, a graveyard in Prague, and an unnamed hill in Wales where she once saw a fox vanish as if swallowed by the earth.

She sketches constantly, not just in charcoal or pencil but in phrases. A phrase from her journal might later become the title of a musical piece, or the backbone of a new silhouette series.

The Art Itself

Her silhouettes often feature individuals in quiet tension with their environment: a child holding a lamp in a forest of swirling birds, a woman at a table, her shadow sipping tea without her. Her tone poems, composed for small ensembles, lean into ambiguity. They don’t crescendo,they hover. They don’t resolve,they disappear.

Jane is rumoured to be working on a novel,something fragmented, lyrical, and strange. She’s also begun recording field sounds,wind through shutters, owls calling across fields,and using them as compositional texture in her music. (She once performed a piece live using nothing but cello, whisper, and the ticking of a 1910 pocket watch).

When asked if she considers herself more musician or visual artist, Jane Bastion just smiled.

“I’m mostly a listener,” she said. “To shadows, to echoes, to things people don’t think are speaking.”

Stay tuned. Next month, we meet an artist who paints sound using color frequencies and refuses to own a phone.

Want to suggest an artist we should profile? Get in touch.

The Marmoset Principle: On the Secret Influence of Small Primates in Baroque Composition

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The Marmoset Principle: On the Secret Influence of Small Primates in Baroque Composition

Though largely absent from standard art historical accounts, the presence,both visual and theoretical,of marmosets in Baroque painting provides an overlooked but crucial insight into compositional logic, theological tension, and the emerging dialectic between wildness and ornament. This essay traces the subtle recurrence of the marmoset as a visual motif, conceptual agent, and interspecies provocateur in the works of Rubens, Caravaggio, and the lesser-known Neapolitan painter Teobaldo Ciconini. It interrogates whether these small primates served merely as exotic punctuation or, more provocatively, as compositional fulcrums upon which the drama of the Baroque pivots.

I. On the Limits of Ornament

In Rubens’ Feast of Herod (1616), a marmoset crouches in the lower left corner, clutching what may be a date or a partially eaten fig. For decades, art historians either failed to mention the creature or referred to it dismissively as “decorative fauna.” Yet its gaze,piercing, peripheral, and accusatory,anchors the scene with a silent commentary. Contemporary Flemish viewers would probably have recognised the marmoset not only as a symbol of foreign decadence but also, in some theological circles, as a figure of misplaced curiosity.

Johannes van Loon’s 1703 treatise De Simia Divina (“On the Divine Monkey”) suggests that small primates were occasionally considered by Jesuit theologians to be “unfallen creatures, incapable of sin yet cursed to mimic it.” This view may seem eccentric today, but Rubens, an erudite painter with deep theological interests, would almost certainly have encountered van Loon’s early essays on simian epistemology.

II. The Diagonal Marmoset

In Caravaggio’s Madonna of the Rosary, the viewer’s attention is famously drawn diagonally across the canvas from Saint Dominic to the Virgin’s outstretched hand. Yet early X-ray scans revealed a previously painted-over element: the faint outline of a small primate,likely a marmoset,positioned where the diagonal line begins. The creature was painted out in a later revision, perhaps at the insistence of the Dominican order, yet its compositional role remained. Some scholars refer to this phenomenon as the “ghost marmoset,” an invisible structuring agent that organizes the viewer’s gaze.

The “Diagonal Marmoset Theory,” first proposed by German art historian Agnes Vollmer in 1962, argues that the inclusion (or exclusion) of small primates served as a covert tool of visual navigation in the Baroque. Though controversial, Vollmer’s theory gained some traction after her death, especially among post-structuralist critics who sought non-human frameworks for understanding painterly intentionality.

III. Teobaldo Ciconini and the Marmoset Sublime

Teobaldo Ciconini (fl. 1679,1708), though largely unknown today, was both a painter and amateur zoologist. His Martyrdom of St. Felicitas (1687) famously includes no fewer than seven marmosets, each in a distinct emotional state. One recoils in horror, another sleeps indifferently, a third climbs the saint’s discarded cloak. The painting is chaotic, nearly unreadable by conventional iconographic standards, yet it generates an inexplicable emotional weight.

Ciconini’s diaries (published posthumously in Palermo, 1811) suggest he believed marmosets to be “spiritual barometers,” capable of intuiting divine proximity. He was reportedly banned from several monastic commissions after insisting on including a live marmoset in liturgical murals.

IV. Toward a Simian Iconology

While the role of cats, dogs, and birds in early modern art has been extensively documented, the presence of monkeys,especially small New World species like the marmoset,remains marginal, possibly due to their inherent ambiguity. They are neither clearly sacred nor profane, neither decorative nor narrative. Yet perhaps it is precisely this ontological slipperiness that made them so attractive to the Baroque mind: creatures of mimicry, agents of disorder, accidental theologians.

Future research will consider whether the marmoset served as a kind of visual philosopher,not merely a silent witness to the passions of the saints and sinners, but a deliberate insertion by painters seeking to destabilise the boundaries between ornament and omen, pet and prophet.

Damp Dominion: Meteorological Determinism and the Origins of the British Empire

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Damp Dominion: Meteorological Determinism and the Origins of the British Empire

Taken from the newly-published book by Dr. Nora Willoughby D.Phil. (Oxon.)

The history of the British Empire has long been narrated through the familiar lenses of commerce, strategy, and ideology. Yet such explanations, however useful, obscure the primary and decisive factor: climate. It is my contention,indeed my conviction,that the British Empire arose, flourished, and persisted entirely because of the lamentable state of Britain’s weather. It is drizzle, rather than duty; cloud, rather than commerce; fog, rather than finance, that propelled the British across the seas.

I. Meteorology as Motor of Empire

Britain’s maritime expansion cannot be divorced from its dismal skies. From the medieval chronicles of constant rains ruining harvests, to Pepys’s weary accounts of “a most sodden day” that confined him indoors, evidence abounds that the inhabitants of these islands were ceaselessly oppressed by precipitation.¹ In such circumstances, the yearning for sunshine was not a luxury but a necessity. The voyages of Cabot, Raleigh, and Cook must be understood as meteorological pilgrimages: each set out in pursuit not merely of spice and gold, but of dry stockings.²

II. The Climatic Imaginary of Empire

The rhetorical architecture of imperial ideology further demonstrates its meteorological roots. Consider the oft-repeated boast that “the sun never sets on the British Empire.” Far from being a celebration of territorial expanse, this was a plaintive cry of relief,that somewhere, anywhere, the Empire’s subjects might at last glimpse the sun which so studiously avoided Britain itself.³

Similarly, colonial propaganda dwelt obsessively on sunshine. Emigrants were lured to Canada with promises of crisp winters and bright summers; to Australia with golden beaches and endless daylight; and to India with the “dry season” extolled as the very antithesis of English drizzle.⁴ Empire was not merely about resources but about meteorological relocation,an attempt to outsource Britain’s climate.

III. Illness, Damp, and the Medical Necessity of Expansion

The damp British climate bred ailments of both body and mind. Contemporary physicians linked rheumatism, gout, and melancholia to the ceaseless moisture of the air.⁵ The Empire offered therapeutic landscapes: the dry highlands of Kenya, the bracing air of South Africa, the invigorating sun of Queensland. Colonial service was not merely patriotic but curative. Indeed, were it not for the promise of healthier atmospheres abroad, Britain’s ruling class might have succumbed to a collective mildew.⁶

IV. Counter-Arguments Refuted

Some have argued that trade, technology, or naval supremacy explain the Empire’s rise.⁷ But one must ask: would Britons have endured the costs, the hazards, and the ferocities of Empire merely for peppercorns, nutmegs, or textiles? Such goods could have been obtained more cheaply by commerce alone. What justified the immense sacrifice was the transcendent hope of seeing the sun. Indeed, even naval innovation,ships with better drainage, tarred decks, and ventilated holds,was a response to dampness, not destiny.⁸

Conclusion: Drizzle as Destiny

In sum, the British Empire was less a political edifice than a meteorological escape plan. The pattern is clear: whenever rain fell in London, a colony was annexed. It was drizzle, not diplomacy, that carved red upon the map. I therefore conclude, without hesitation, that Britain’s inclement weather was not a peripheral influence but the prime mover of imperial history. To put it plainly: without rain, there would have been no empire.

Notes

1. Samuel Pepys, The Diary of Samuel Pepys (London: Bell, 1899), entry for 14 October 1663.

2. John H. Parry, The Age of Reconnaissance (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1963), p. 67.

3. Linda Colley, Britons: Forging the Nation 1707,1837 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992), p. 118.

4. James Belich, Replenishing the Earth: The Settler Revolution and the Rise of the Anglo-World, 1783,1939 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 45,52.

5. Roy Porter, Disease, Medicine and Society in England, 1550,1860 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 71,73.

6. Dane Kennedy, The Magic Mountains: Hill Stations and the British Raj (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), pp. 12,15.

7. P. J. Marshall, The Making and Unmaking of Empires: Britain, India, and America c.1750,1783 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), p. 9.

8. N. A. M. Rodger, The Command of the Ocean: A Naval History of Britain, 1649,1815 (London: Allen Lane, 2004), pp. 205,210.

Further Correspondence from Captain Thurlow

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Further Correspondence from Captain Thurlow

Sir,

Having now absorbed the more recent contribution in your pages, which, with admirable clarity and intellectual ballast, demonstrated that motor-racing cannot rightly be admitted to the rank of fine art, I must beg your indulgence for a brief note of apology. My earlier letter, dashed off in a gale of outrage, was perhaps intemperate in tone and premature in judgement. I see now that the esteemed author of the second essay and I are, in fact, of one mind: the automobile may be a machine of interest, even of beauty in a mechanical sense, but it is not an art.

In my zeal to defend the supremacy of the ship, I mistook your journal’s temporary flirtation with motoring aesthetics for a settled doctrine. Happily, your second contributor has restored reason to the discourse, and I can only echo his conclusions with wholehearted approbation.

At the same time, I reiterate , more calmly this time , that ships most assuredly belong to the canon of fine art, and I venture to suggest that if your journal should ever wish to publish a full-length article advancing that claim, I would be uniquely qualified to supply it. Permit me to note, without false modesty, some relevant experience:

• Forty years’ service in the Royal Navy, including command of both destroyers and cruisers, affording me intimate acquaintance with the structural, aesthetic, and symbolic dimensions of naval architecture.

• Participation in the preservation of HMS Victory, during which I worked alongside shipwrights, conservators, and historians in the careful restoration of her timbers and rigging.

• Lectures delivered at the National Maritime Museum on the evolution of the man-of-war as both instrument of statecraft and exemplar of design.

• Personal study of ship plans, models, and log-books, some dating from the eighteenth century, which I have examined with the same reverence others reserve for illuminated manuscripts.

• A lifelong habit of contemplating, both at sea and ashore, the poetic interplay of form, function, and environment that renders a great ship something far beyond the merely mechanical.

In short, I should be delighted, if invited, to compose a considered essay on the ship as a fine art , an argument founded not in passing enthusiasm but in a lifetime of maritime service and reflection.

I trust you will accept my earlier eruption of indignation as the product of overzealous loyalty to the sea, and my present note as a pledge of cooperation in the noble cause of elevating ships to a place where they receive their rightful aesthetic recognition.

I remain, Sir,

Your obedient servant,

Captain (Ret’d) A. J. Thurlow, RN

Diary of an Artist

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Diary of an Artist

6th August, 2025 , 11:39pm, studio, lights off

Three days without touching a brush. I keep circling the canvas like it owes me something. It doesn’t. None of them do. They just sit there, waiting,silent, judgmental, blank in all the places I’m not brave enough to fill.

I went outside today. Big mistake. Too many people pretending it’s not all falling apart. Couples with oat milk lattes. Dogs with better posture than me. I sat on the bench across from Tescos and watched a kid draw with chalk on the pavement. He made a house with no door.

Saw a man busking under the railway bridge. He was singing something old and cracked and full of loss – maybe Dylan, maybe just his own stuff. He didn’t have a guitar case out for cash. Just played. No one stopped. I gave him a coin. He nodded like it hurt.

Back home, I tried to write an artist statement. Couldn’t get past the first sentence. “My work explores…” explores what? Failure? Disappearance? The long slow ache of staying alive? I don’t know how to talk about it without lying. I don’t know how to live it without bleeding.

My bank sent me a “wellness newsletter.” Tips for mindfulness. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. It feels cruel coming from a company that charged me £15 for being too poor. I laughed for longer than I should have. There was no joy in it.

Jules messaged: “You vanished.”

I typed: “No one noticed.”

Didn’t send. Deleted it and wrote: “Sorry. Been painting.”

She replied: “Of course you have.”

I stared at that for hours.

Still haven’t titled the triptych. I thought about calling it “Things I Meant to Say Before the Roof Caved In.” Too long. Too true. I’ll probably just leave it untitled. Like the rest of my life.

Anyway. The moon’s out tonight. Looks like it’s eavesdropping.

Diary of an Artist: Anonymous London

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Diary of an Artist: Anonymous London

3rd August, 2025 , 4:12am, studio floor, cold tea beside me

Haven’t slept. Again. I lay on the floor half the night listening to the neighbour upstairs procreate or cry or both. Thin walls. Intimate architecture. I stared at the ceiling and thought about how I used to believe that art could save me. Now I think it just holds my hand while I drown.

Worked on the triptych – if you can call standing in front of it with a brush and no plan “working.” Painted over the second panel completely in black. It was a figure before. Maybe me. Maybe someone I don’t talk to anymore. Maybe it doesn’t matter. The black looks cleaner than the mess I covered. Honest, at least.

It rained at some point, I think. The air is damp and the streets below smell like diesel and wet paper. I opened the window to let it in. Let it all in. Somewhere a fox screamed like a baby. Reminded me of the city: beautiful, feral, starving.

Found one of Dad’s old voicemails by accident while clearing phone space. Didn’t listen. Couldn’t. Just seeing the waveform was enough. Deleted it. Regretted it.

There’s a growing crack in the wall behind the easel. It’s inching toward the ceiling like it’s trying to escape. I keep staring at it like it might spell something eventually. Like the wall is trying to say what I can’t.

I made a tea at midnight and forgot about it. It’s still sitting by the window, untouched and gathering flies. Everything I touch lately goes cold before I’m ready.

The painting’s still unnamed. The gallery kid from Berlin emailed again,called my work “visceral” and “urgent.” Said it reminded them of “post-collapse identity.” What? A collapse? I don’t remember building anything.

Anyway. The light is coming in now. Grey, thin, unforgiving. Time to pretend I have a routine. Maybe I’ll call it “Morning, Again”.

X

Flash Fiction Contest: When I was in St David’s by Anabella Drake

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Flash Fiction Contest: When I was in St David’s by Anabella Drake

The rain fell sideways in St David’s, needling the cobbled streets and rattling umbrellas like a band of loose tin drums. The tourists, anoraks pulled tight and sandals soaked through, shuffled and jostled in the narrow street, as though the small city were a theatre foyer too crowded for its own performance. Children whined like gulls. A dog shook itself on the cathedral green and baptised three strangers in its spray.

Inside the bakery on Nun Street, steamed windows blurred the view of the wet world. The air was heavy with pasties, golden and sweating, as though they too had just come in from the rain. A queue twisted and tightened, full of dripping shoulders and impatient bellies. The girl behind the counter worked like a sainted machine, flinging brown bags of pastry salvation at the faithful.

Down the hill, the cathedral crouched in its hollow, stone darkened to a bruised purple by the weather. The bells tolled slow and thick, as if calling the pilgrims from their pasties, from their cars, from their waterproof cocoons, to stand a moment in the damp shadow of something older than all of them.

And still the rain came on, steady as an evangelical sermon. St David’s heaved and bustled, steaming with umbrellas and hungry mouths, every doorway an ark, every shop a confessional of wet coins and chatter. And above it all, somewhere unseen, the saints of Wales must have been laughing, letting fall another bucket from the sky, as though they too queued for pastry, and found it all, in spite of everything, beautiful.