I took me over all of a sudden when I was lying there on the salon bed and she was stripping me of all my unwanted hair (what a ridiculous process – nature doing what she does for probably all the right reasons and we wax and pluck it away – so be it). I thought how I long to make something beautiful. Something small, something for me, something so exquisite it is breathtaking. Is this desire about the object itself or the feeling it would give me about myself? Is this about pride, about a sense of self or the process of making? Everything has felt so drudge-like over these last few days, grey, shoddy, nothing that has come out of me has been worthy of note. Ah, you see it comes out now that need for congratulation, if only from myself. Can I not escape it? The desire for beauty is innate, I think. And the desire to construct it for myself lifelong. Perhaps it shouldn’t be about beauty but the necessity to be make. He was always making things, said Peter Lanyon’s son of his father on a radio documentary aired recently. Lanyon was a friend of Mark Rothko’s – imagine that. Perhaps this is just my inner workings wanting a balance. I’ve done so much thinking and writing recently that maybe my psyche wants to even it out with making. Whatever that making could be? I am not one thing. I am in constant flux with my creative life. Is that OK? I used to long to be one thing, to be defined by one medium, one metier. How lovely that would be, I thought. To know myself, to do one thing exceedingly well. But I never achieved it. I have a magpie mind or is it a butterfly one? I’ve always sought out new modes of expression. More Beuys than Rothko. I seek the immersion painters talk of. Can I have some of that? Meanwhile I shall keep writing. I need to see where it takes me. To take one another project now would be foolhardy. Wouldn’t it?