Chinese Space Bra

Sometimes when you say things out loud, they confront you in a way that hides when it lurks only in thought. With a solid night’s sleep I’m more optimistic about life, and the kids are telling us about China, how – according to Miss Healy – the latest astronauts say you can’t see the Great Wall anymore. On any of the days last week, my vulnerable, panic-stricken brain might have taken that and created some sort of pollution smog monster. But today they ask if their mum or I have been to China.

I share tales of an artist residency in Beijing in 2018, how I drew on the walls after wandering around and collecting imagery of points of interest.

Laura says, “You drew on products too, didn’t you?”

“I did.” The kids stare with fierce curiosity now. “Trainers, t-shirts… I did this bra, actually…”

Laura’s eyes widen.

“What, Daddy? What?” They say it in unison. Now they’re really in.

“It was some Olympic athlete, gymnast I think. She’d bought it in Victoria’s Secret and wanted me to draw her doing her thing on the cup.”

And nobody really knows what to do with this, me least of all. That’s when I start to cackle into my porridge – the absurdity of all this. A 17-year career of highly unpredictable breaks and opportunities, governed by some sort of chaos deity, maintaining my perpetual sense of terminal decline because who, leading a freelance career of this nature, could ever feel secure this way?

Creativity sets in motion a sequence of effects, ideas, and far-reaching culture collisions, and when it flows, it’s beautiful, but never, ever, look to it for anything less than bloody ridiculous when you set out to do it on your purest terms.