A short story about heartbreak, homelessness and how an artist residency helped me find my feet again.
I want to tell you about an Artist Residency. A residency in a remarkable mansion house in Arbroath, Scotland. But first I’ll have to take you back a little, so you understand what stage I was at in my life and how this might save me from losing my mind!
In June 2004 I was on the tube in London with my boyfriend of 13 years, heading to the party of one of his work colleagues, when the straw finally broke this camel’s back.
He’d moved to London four months ahead of me, to take up a job with a company that would offer him the final training he needed to qualify as a chartered surveyor. I’d stayed behind in Scotland to continue in my job at Aberdeen Art Gallery, whilst looking for new work in London. It was a fabulous job with the fancy title: Exhibitions & Display Officer. I was loath to leave knowing I’d never be able to match it in London but had always fantasised about working in Theatre Costume or as a technician in an art college, so these became my focus for job applications.
There followed a few failed interviews in London and time kept passing on by. I could feel us drifting further apart, so I bit the bullet, said ‘goodbye’ to the gallery and my life in Aberdeen and joined him in London.
It was strained from the off. He was clearly angry with me for not having gone down with him in the first place (though he’d never even hinted at that before!) and his criticisms of me were relentless. Whenever I tried to defend myself or resolve a conflict, he would give me the silent treatment to punish and frustrate me further. He was clever, so could put me down with just a few words and could keep up the silence for days on end. Once he even managed a fortnight!
I was constantly on edge and miserable in the relationship, as well as unemployed with no friends.
The man I’d been in love with since my 21st birthday, who’d lived with me through my art college years, who’d supported me when I went for my first residency in Huntly and who’d moved with me for the entire year to Stranraer for my second residency there, and so many more critical life changes in between, was now sitting in a different room than me most evenings.
That day on the tube in June was no different. Once again, his cruel and cutting put-downs broke me and I hung my head to hide the tears that rolled down my cheeks, clinging to the yellow grab rail to steady myself. I didn’t even want to go to the party. I didn’t know the people there, I was shy, and I certainly didn’t feel I was heading there with a supportive friend.
The tube pulled into Camden Market station and, just as the doors started to close, I stepped off, leaving him alone in the carriage.
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