Floor Paint [#171224]

17/12/24

I find cold water to be very therapeutic for both my body and spirit. It's the ultimate "fuck you!" to a mind that tries to keep me safe and secure, and nothing says "I'm in control in all areas of my life" like sitting full of ice cold water for several minutes, 6 and 45 seconds to be precise, at some silly hour first thing in the morning. Every bone in my body is telling me not to do it, but I do it anyway. There is something cool about that. The discipline required, it sets you up for a good day of actually doing what you say you are going to do, which is critical for anyone chasing an elusive dream.

It also gives me a massive buzz, which lasts several long hours after the water has been evacuated and your red, goosey, bumped limbs swiftly towel dried. I don my dressing gown, run upstairs, get dressed, pack my bag with my food, water, notebook and drill and set off straight away.

Today I am de-installing a photography exhibition at the Open Eye Hub in Leigh. I've had a quiet summer, work-wise, but now it's been full on for most of the autumn and winter. Feast and famine, famine and feast. I like physical jobs. They keep me in my body and my body certainly likes to be used during the day so that it can get to sleep at night.

Yesterday, I was painting the floor at the Theatre / Cinema space at The Turnpike Gallery, also in Leigh. I seem to have been drawn magnetically to "The Dark Side" over the last year or so: my studio is here, a lot of my jobs are here, and it has it all anyway, does Leigh. I like the people, the market, the weirdness and authentic qualities of the people and the place. It feels real. The paint for the floor, mid-grey and sticky like tar, stinks immensely. It lingers in your hair and clothes. But it goes on like a dream. It transforms an old looking space into a pristine clean and windless lake, reflecting the ceiling and walls. Martyn and me both agree that people shouldn't be allowed to walk on it, ever.