It is raining, and then stopping, then raining again. And there are builders with big machines moving hardcore out the front. Rather than drag the behemoth 'SMILE' canvas down the stairs, out the front door, round to the garage and up the ladder, I took the bold decision of werking on it in the spare bedroom, where it presently resides.
I werked and werked with chalk, fingers and dry-brush; then stopped and lay on the makeshift bed to get some perspective; then werked; then ate lunch; then bashed away on my spanish guitar; then scrawled some lyrics to a prospective new Miss Pain song entitled "The Last of the Great French Lovers"; then werked some more with titanium white oil paint, blending it out.
For a time it seemed I was going too far with the spread of the white neon glow, but the photos I took suggest it is working. I stopped at around 5pm, called it a day and left an instructional note to any visitors.
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