Some of my MFA drawings, from 1993. That's right. For nearly 20 years I've been lugging these huge pieces of glass and wood from house to house, stashing them behind wardrobes and bookshelves, and having them somehow clogging up a part of my mind.
Perhaps if I'd had them out in the open it wouldn't have been so bad, but they're far too big for a small room, and far too heavy for the 100-year-old walls of the bigger places I've lived in.
At first I kept them because that's what you're supposed to do. Eventually I was keeping them because, well, they're too big for the bin.
They were important drawings: the result of a blinding flash of insight after years of stuffing around with an art degree, trying to figure out what it was that I was supposed to be getting right. In the space of about a month I realised that no-one takes care of you but yourself, that the only way to get any work done is to take it seriously, that getting enough sleep is important and afternoon naps are not sinful, that eating vegetables and rice instead of bread is a good idea, that picking up after yourself makes it easier to get around your room, that if anyone doubts your work you should simply carry on with it till they're convinced or shut up, and that starting a drawing without caring how it will end up is pretty exciting. I started drawing.
I did them quickly, one a week. I worked on my bedroom floor, so they got stepped on and tripped over. One was ruined when I fell over it; I simply drew it again, better. They were funny, and fun to do. They were completely different from anything I'd done before. I had no idea whether they were any good, yet also knew that they were the best things I'd ever done
But after I finished studying, they seemed to acquire a seriousness. They became the best things I'd ever done... years ago. They became precious, and made me feel sad and guilty whenever I found one lurking behind a bookshelf.
On Saturday I took them to the junk shop. Now I can do some new work.