The Malevich Teapot
by Chris Blackford
We all have to start somewhere. And some of us have to start again somewhere. I had to start again at the William Morris Gallery in Walthamstow; that imposing Georgian edifice on the edge of London with its big bay windows and its landscape gardens. How it dominated the area, and dominated me. Each time I went there I felt like a trespasser sneaking across the threshold with an aching inferiority complex that would not go away. But the place kept calling me, pulling me back time and again into its rarefied atmosphere, seducing me with its promise of elegance and sophistication: things sadly lacking in my own life. Even the bricks and mortar were speaking to me, telling me things that only I could hear, and that only I could act on.
Yes, this was the place to start again. I knew it in my heart of hearts. This was the place that would get things going, reboot the whole mental machinery. This was the place where I could buy that special notebook; a notebook that would record all the thoughts and dreams that were happening to me. For the beauty of transience was not something I cared for at this moment in time as I stood in the entrance hall of this magnificent house. What I told myself I needed was stability. I had to a get a grip on things. Find a purpose. Get things down on paper.
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The Malevich Teapot – 34 chapters (Online)
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