Saturday, November 11. Open Day; the final one for this academic year. The weather, which had been kind to us on previous occasions, withdrew its blessing: a bristling cold air and downpour were the overture for the day. Before facing towards the town, I’d alighted upon a tweet posted by the Church Times. It featured a quote from the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Westminster, Cardinal Vincent Nichols, who’d given evidence at this week’s Independent Inquiry into Child Sexual Abuse in the Church. He confessed:
I’m afraid there are not many areas of my life in which there is total integrity. I failed in this.
True. He was asleep at the wheel, remiss in his duty of care, and people were grievously hurt as a consequence. But his is an admission that, in its generality, I and, I’d surmise, a great others could make. To be human is to be inconsistent. I speak only for myself: I’m thoroughly flawed. My endeavours to be honest, upright, and spiritually coherent are woefully inconsistent, and shot through with improper motives and ambitions. My better instincts are in conflict with my passions. But in this respect, I’m in good company: this was the Apostle Paul’s experience too:
For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do (Romans 7.19).
Following two contrasting MA interviews, I stretched my legs with a wander around the studios. Christmas has come early to the painting studio:
In between interviews and consultations I batted on with admin, teaching prep for next week’s Abstraction session on essay writing, and style changes to the CDs’ websites.
We’re receiving an increasing number of inquiries about our MA schemes from ‘mature-mature’ students: those that are in the 55+ bracket and heading towards full- or semi-retirement. Some would’ve dearly loved to study art when they were young. But either family responsibilities or advice given by parents (to choose a sensible career) prevented that ambition from being fulfilled, until now. It’s never too late to find yourself – the self that somehow got lost along the way.
1.00 pm: A working lunch. The sun broke through:
No sooner said, than the those great, grey sodden sponges closed in upon it, like school bullies, once again. 2.30 pm: The husband of my last interviewee, who was also an artist, had met Marcel Duchamp. How extraordinary. Talk about five degrees of separation.
Once again, there’d been a happy and upbeat spirit at the School. This is the art school that I would wish to enter if applying today (at whatever age I might be). 3.45 pm: Curtain down.
