Having an exhibition

My daughter brought me a little rose bush in a pot. My friend bought me a cup of coffee. Then they left, I saw my friend off, walking to a car park with her and back on my own. The young proprietor and his friend are talking Greek to each other in the corner. There is no-one else here and two hours to go.

I sing. What else can you do when there is no path to follow at all. The friendly proprietor tells me that he has invited all the members of this arts social club, this is the first time nobody has come. This is not a novel experience.

This following week the sense of despondence is growing, after such concentrated effort the pictures are gone from here, my studio. My raison d'etre. They hang elsewhere. It is dark, it is drizzling.

Mind you, there was that courteous, young, Mexican footballer who turned up just after I'd finished hanging the pictures, an hour before the opening. That was cheering. He asked such an important question, something I don't remember being asked before. He said he would like to paint, and he wanted to know about the emotions.

Morag Emmerson, November 2007