The time has come to consider leaving the sewers.
That’s what they are really – my studios. If you’ve not picked up the coded messages that I’ve been leaving throughout my posts.
For the past 10 years I’ve been living in a sewer. It feels good to say that. I know I like to project the impression that I am a successful artist – living a vagabond’s existence, scavenging for art supplies – but most of the time, I’m simply scavenging for food. Although I would never say that I was homeless, I live relatively comfortable for someone who doesn’t technically have a roof over his head.
There’s a bridge in Norwich, walk down the bank next to it. As you start to approach the riverbank, trace your fingers over the rough brickwork until you feel them become smooth. The smoothest of these bright red bricks have the roman numerals ‘MMVI’ engraved on them. This is the year I moved in.
Keep edging along, closer to the river bank until you can creep under the bridge itself. Embedded into the curve of the low arch is a wooden door, no taller than 4 foot. Go there and push that door open – discover the life that I left behind.
My Mother traced the call I made last week from the phone box. She’s been searching for me for years – although we’ve been talking regularly.
I was woken on a Sunday morning, with the weight of 8 cans of Fosters Lagers on my brow, by a knock on my front door. Lifting the stitched blanket of designer fashion clothes from my fully clothed form, I stumbled to the small portal and pulled back the bolt. If I hadn’t been drunk still, I would’ve had the good sense to not answer it. But I was – so I did.
She looked silly there, dressed up in her waterproofs and woollens – always prepared for the worst.
“Hello, Hugh. It’s time to leave here.”
Despite my decade of independence and years as a working artist, I was tired of the sleepless nights. The rattle of the cars, screams of the students and endless hangovers.
My Mother, who I had abandoned 10 years ago – had found me. To birth me anew, out of the dark of a dank, damp existence and into a bright new world – where I could learn to live again.
She’d found me a home, a place to live. Away from Norwich (I never got to say good bye to my saving graces at Greggs!), in the peaceful city of Exeter – far away from my old life. A beautiful artist’s residence, filled with creatives and supplied with all of the materials and tools I would ever need. Occupied by fellow creatives, in a purpose built apartment block – this is my home now.
Instead of living in an abandoned space, alone and cold. I can fall asleep in a bed, in a room with heating. In a building designed by people for people, instead of a squalid hole that I’d simply gotten used to. I met the gentlemen from Architectural Emporium, the designers of the space. They told me how they’d designed the spaces inside to be the ideal situation for creatives. Airy spaces, natural materials and plenty of light – so that only the soft glow of a lamp would be needed to add texture to the comfortable rooms.
I’m glad my Mother found me. My decade long self-exile had ended as abruptly as it began and now I’m slowly recording over the memories of my past life. It’s surprising how quickly you can abandon the habits of the past.
The cans of Fosters Lager, the daily Steak Bakes, the endless blogging.