Sometimes I get so confused. I don’t know where to start and start in the place I know: the middle. I know for certain that I was trying to piece an idea from out of the tangle, I had to get hold of the thread and follow it, pull it apart from the others. I knew it involved photographing; portraits.
I have to get my camera out, I have to practise with it, what if I have forgotten how to work it? What if I can’t borrow lights and a tripod? Will I have to buy my own? I don’t think I can, I blew all my money on three 1950s style wrap dresses, which are en route over the Atlantic now, they sent me an email.
What if I can’t work this idea loose, if it sticks together with all the others like cooked spaghetti left in the pan? I won’t be able to tell Jaspar about it, he will think I don’t get ideas, that I don’t work on them; he will think I don’t think.
I was in the theatrical bookshop off Charing Cross two weeks ago, there was a large book I wanted, but I was erming and ahhing about the cost: £25, I didn’t know if I could afford it; but I wanted it and I didn’t get it. On the train home, I realised how important the book was, I realised I had to take glamourous photographs, not of myself, of the other residents. They are pre-selected you see. I don’t think I knew when I was on the train that I was going; I just hoped.
The book was called “They All Had Glamour”.