Inspired by a line from a JG Ballard novel, I decided to draw a map of myself, but of course to do that I first needed a little help. I called an old friend and was deliberately cryptic, asking her if she could possibly spare me some time on this murky Sunday morning. Intrigued she agreed and was at my front door within the hour. I ushered her in and being enthused by my pet project showed her none of my usual hospitality. She wasn't permitted to throw her handbag down or take her coat off, although I had insisted she removed her shoes before I shoved her through to the living room. There was no time to lose!
room, I admit, was in a bit of disarray, which my friend would tell
you was highly unusual as I'm scrupulously clean. The sink was piled
with dirty dishes from Saturday's dinner and this morning's hurried
breakfast; the air smelt faintly of spices and banana porridge. The
table was littered with debris: more dirty crockery, salt and pepper
shakers, a smear of dried tomato sauce, along with a carelessly
flung-down pair of large scissors and tiny screwed up balls of
sellotape. The carpeted floor was strewn with blank A3 sheets of
paper, some of torn or trampled.
my good friend has seen worse, so said not a word, although I have to
say that being in the 'moment' I wasn't too shamed by how it must
have looked. That happened in the next couple of days once my
creative-manic phase was well and truly over.
what's the emergency?” She enquired, standing in her outer wear and
pink socked feet.
round me!” I barked, flinging myself down on sheets of A3
god my friend has the patience of a saint!
knelt, handbag still clamped on her shoulder and picked up the green
felt tip I'd selected earlier, as I stretched fully-clothed, lying
face up, on my paper rug.
was the best place, she said, to begin? Head or feet? I personally
thought the left side of my neck, so that's what I told her, and then
the pen's tickle began.
cautious at first, but grew bolder as she got used to being inches
away from my physical frame. Her grip on the pen more sure as her
mind let go and entered the flow of tracing my contours. I wanted it
to be exact, no half measures. My friend knew all too well my
perfectionist streak so I hadn't needed to tell her, and besides from
my vantage point I could easily see the concentration etched on her
tickled my ribs so that I bit the inside of my lip and tasted my own
iron-rich blood. Its nib caressed in-between my long fingers and I
inwardly squirmed. Don't move, I soundlessly commanded myself, you'll
spoil the art.
She said, sitting back on her heels and capping the felt tip with a
slowly got up from my prostate position, being careful not to crease
the paper, and stood over our joint creation. The bird's eye view was
just as I hoped. It was like a looped coastal path that started and
ended at the same location, but the landscape it contained was empty.
friend had left me admiring the outline of myself to pour herself a
lukewarm mug of coffee. She returned to my awestruck side, mug in
hand, “Anything else, your Ladyship?”
ta”, I replied giving her a quick sidelong glance and a half
crescent smile. “Right then, I'll be off.” She said, padding
unobtrusively again to the kitchen and then the front door, letting
herself softly out.
I felt bad for dragging her to my place on a Sunday, but at the time
I was on a creative roll, at the peak of a very high mountain.
Pursuing art can be like that sometimes; the map of myself far more
important than anything else, including others plans.
coloured pencils had gone to work before the front door had even
lightly touched its frame. My stomach became the sea with white
crests and sail boats; my heart was a Museum with Grecian pillars,
and my head was crammed with rows of books. Mapping my body with the
places I've seen and things that I loved was an all-consuming art.