Diary of an Artist

Artist Diary – Hedge Fund

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Artist Diary – Hedge Fund

Late August 2025

Weather: humid; feels like breathing soup.

Dear Diary,

The visionaries at Pimlico Wilde have regretfully refused to fund my pure gold Brighton Pier project, citing “liquidity concerns” and “the fact it would weigh several tonnes and immediately sink into the Channel.” Philistines. I am not going to build it by the sea, it will be in Dubai or Saudi, where people understand grand art projects. Pimlico Wilde say they’re looking for “aligned sponsors” who might wish to be involved. I sincerely hope they find one, perhaps a hedge fund with a fondness for golden maritime memorabilia. I’m amazed they will publish this uncensored, but they say they will. Congrats PW on your commitment to free speech.

In the meantime, London’s weather has taken on that oppressive, sticky quality where every handshake feels like a regrettable contract. Yesterday I set a personal record — seventeen iced coffees in one day. By the fifteenth I was trembling at a frequency only dogs could hear.

I’ve been making the exhibition rounds to keep my cultural diet rich. Saw an immersive light show in Bermondsey that promised to “transform your relationship with time.” It mostly transformed my relationship with waiting in queues – I waited for thirty minutes longer than normal, then gave up. Next a conceptual installation in Clerkenwell: a single shoe in a spotlight, accompanied by the sound of rainfall. The artist said it was about “loneliness.” I said it was about “losing your footwear in Shoreditch in the rain illuminated by the light of an active CCTV camera.” We agreed to disagree, but later he whispered that I have guessed his inspiration perfectly.

Arabella remains politely baffled by my current creative “season.” She asked whether I might try painting again, since gold prices are apparently “volatile” and storage costs for the safe life-size pier replica “would exceed the GDP of a small nation.” I told her great art is never about feasibility.

Tomorrow I’ll meet with a contact who claims to have “investor leads” for the pier of gold. I’m picturing a Dubai shipping magnate, but knowing my luck it’ll be a man in Croydon who collects commemorative teaspoons and wants to pay in Tesco Clubcard points.

Ever hopeful,

Hedge (digital artist, iced coffee endurance athlete, goldsmith of the artworld)

Artist Diary- Hedge Fund

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Artist Diary- Hedge Fund

The last few days have been a carousel of triumph and tragedy — which is to say, a perfectly average week for all of us misunderstood geniuses.

First, the high: my latest piece, Inflation in Pastel, was declared “a poignant critique of fiscal despair” by a blogger who runs an Etsy shop selling ironic tea towels. The low: the same blogger suggested it “would look great in the downstairs loo.” Still, exposure is exposure.

Arabella and I took a restorative trip to Brighton. She claimed it was to “relax”; but I can’t stop thinking of work all the time. Case in point, I now want to make a full-size replica of the pier out of…but I am getting ahead of myself. In Brighton I’d brought along my freshly printed Cryptocurrency & Cabbages (a limited-run print of a Bitcoin symbol weeping into coleslaw) to photograph against the pier. Unfortunately, on the way back through Victoria Station, I set it down for — and I cannot stress this enough — a single moment while adjusting my scarf.

When I tried to pick it up again, after this veritable moment, it was gone.

Gone.

Somewhere out there is a man who thinks he’s got a weird menu poster from a failing vegan café. With a good auctioneer that’s £850,000 worth of visual philosophy now roaming the streets.

On the upside, Brighton was inspirational. I saw a man wearing three berets at once, a child trying to surf on a baguette, and a seagull that had learned to open crisp packets. I may call my next series Urban Majesty.

Speaking of which, I’m flirting with a bold new direction in my sculptural work. Specifically, moulded gold. Imagine: a series of solid gold pieces shaped like British cultural icons — a cup of builder’s tea, a bus stop sign, the haunting stare of a Greggs sausage roll. Price point? They’d have to be £500,000 each just to cover the cost of the gold. And my great dream, recreating a life-size Brighton Pier out of gold will cost even more. I don’t know whether Stevenson at Pimlico Wilde will agree to fund it.

Arabella says I should maybe try clay first. I told her clay is for pottery classes and heartbreak, not for a man who once moved the Berlin art scene to near tears (one man, specifically, and I was drunk, but still).

Tomorrow I’ll look for a gold supplier. I suspect Hatton Garden will welcome me like a prodigal son.

In fluctuating fortune,

Hedge

digital artist, part-time coastal philosopher, full-time victim of the petty crime-industrial complex

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

Diary of an Artist – Anonymous, London

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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