'Play or fold, love is bold, what is the future that will unfold?'*

I meet the man on a sunny afternoon in the industrial backwaters, near the water. Before he gets there I stand on the sidewalk looking down, scouring for rusty metal – to go in a bowl at home and maybe one day a sculpture more structured than that. This part of the footpath is somehow sandy, the rough asphalt clogged, infilled with dirt and sand, and bits, little pieces of glass green and clear, small washers, unknown rough shards of rusted sheet metal, tiny little surprises, and as my eyes scan over them I am reminded of looking for shells at the beach, as if this piece of land is somehow still linked to the tides that run only hundreds of metres away in the big bowl of the harbour, as if this industrial zone is just overlaid on what was there before, and what was there before is somehow tugging at the inanimate objects scattered from lives here, the outer shells of consumer goods now dead, being washed with the wind, in tides, across the black chalky sands, weathered smooth and gentle, there to be found, and made into something new.

He is small and sharp looking, lean, whippet, short, boy-like. He is dressed in that casual attire of the very rich – the crispest white polo shirt in a gratifyingly rough white cotton, asymmetrical press studs which keep catching my eye, jeans, nice slightly roughened brown Italian leather shoes sticking out the bottom in a casual arc. A cap. Not to shade the sun, he parks his black beamer under cover and I doubt he will walk anywhere today except maybe for coffee.

He shakes my hand, looks at me with steady eyes that are sure but not aggressive. We go in. He darts around as he tells me about his vision for the space– he stands legs in balletical first position, then slides to second, or fourth, to show me where walls intersect, where corners will be. His body straight, his arms straight down and palms out beseeching, he becomes the renovations.

Such a big space, so exciting to see the disrepair and imagine the construction of walls, the white paint that will come, the cleaned bare concrete floor which will be strong enough and durable enough to endure slights in the medium of paint or ink or glass or stone. It is a stoic mass and I imagine it will barely even register such superficial interference with its surface.
This will be a great space. He suggests I take a studio space in the front, near the door, and near the hallway to the kitchen and washing area. Normally I would be wary of such a position, my sensitivity to feeling overexposed, or to feeling not enclosed enough would often make me reluctant to take on a spot like this. But this feels different, it feels like a light and small and active place to be, somehow like the hub of a wheel. I want to be part of that, I want to be part of this place of committed, interested, serious people who love what they do and do what they love. I want shelves and a cupboard for materials, a table and jars of paintbrushes, somewhere for rollers and inks and plates to be out, lined up and ready to be used, not enclosed in dark airless boxes. I want keys. I want to be there for the opening. I want to see how the exhibition space gets used, what it evolves into. I want in!

But.. at the same time I wonder about finishing the postgrad course I enrolled in a few years back then stalled. I haven’t quite quit it and part of me thinks that I should finish what I start before I start something new, and that I should boost my employability, be responsible, look to the future etc. My CV is a very bossy and disciplinarian taskmistress, and it is currently having it out with my blank and eager drawing book over who gets access to my spare time.

Or could I do both? ‘The more you do, the more you find you can do’... and all that.

This really has become a ‘Dear Dolly Lifecoach’ column hasn’t it?

* More apols to the Beasties