Yesterday was my drawing day in the Museum. I didn’t hold out much hope for much to study, and I wasn’t far wrong. A bloke stood at the bottom of the stairs asking for names and proof of booking. Ah, will spontaneity ever return? The admittance was limited, as were the rooms that were open – just the one floor. We are trailed behind each other, masks on (which doesn’t aid the study of faces) – umming and ahing over the exhibits that I’ve seen countless times. And it is so dark in there. I did draw – such as the petulant girl who kept slumping down on chairs, evidently determined to show how bored she was, and there was the little boy too, all tousle-headed with his Dad. I heard his voice echoing through the hall (somehow they had managed to get upstairs).
He was in the café across the street while I drew, ‘happy as Larry’ with his paper and coffee. I joined him eventually and drew in there. I’d spent the morning copying intentionally, trying to learn from Ronald Searle’s mark-making. It helped, I think. I drew with more speed, trying to just keep going and not judge. One step forward and umpteen back.
There was an L-plate on the pavement outside the corner shop. And packs of kids seemed to roam the streets (since the clubs have opened), three girls arm-in-arm first and then a hoard of them spilling out into the road.
