Three stages of mayhem.

It’s funny really and most enjoyable writing a novel in my sixties considering I was told I was too astute when I was at school. If I could write an essay on a page it would have been sufficient. I thought my name was C me Later

It turns out I was dyslexic and discovered that in my thirties. So it wasn’t just abysmal handwriting after all

In my mid forties I did actually open up my own business and yes it was an art gallery. It was akin to performing on a stage. You opened up. The curtains raised and you went through an unscripted play with great characters and yes there was lots of wine much too the dismay of my accountant. It was the oil of the art world Then eventually you’d turn out the lights ,lock the doors and go home or a few drinks before hand. the curtain would close and rise again for the next act. You see no one ever needs to buy art and there is no justification to why one should buy anything. however a blank wall is a heinous crime and when you hang your first piece of art, life is never the same . So then after selling many paintings, sculptures and glass I became the artist. This is far more nerve wracking than selling quarter million pound artworks. I mean it’s my life on a piece of paper. And someone buys you. Trust me. You don’t get over it. Till the next time.

Enjoy this tale of a man who ventures into such a world and survives to tell the tale.