Being new to blogging, I naturally wanted to know how it's done 'properly', so felt inclined to ask around. I guess it came as no surprise that the winner by a large margin was the opinion that one should complain a lot. The Great British Public seem to never have enough of finding great satisfaction in the fact that someone's life (day, experience) could be worse than that of their own. Secretly, I believe this is the reason for 'EastEnders ' lasting success: the misery of daily existence glorified to the point of becoming a form of art!
Having said that, I could only scratch my head wondering if blogging therefore was for me at all. Being naturally cheerful and positive, I didn't think moaning to the public would do any good to anyone. But still, the task was set, and never the one to miss a challenge, I went away thinking of what else went wrong in my life that was worthy of mentioning here. Guess what! It wasn't long till I was jumping up and down – because, like everybody else, I did have something to complain about! It was especially pleasing to find such a thing so fast because it was directly related to my first ever blog only posted a day ago, in which I was talking about the mistakes – of places they go – and my personal quest of not leaving them behind if I could help it!
The thing is – it has indeed been a defining point of my career, or possibly life (read previous post). And so, I do revisit it every now and then. I gave it a mention in one of the inevitable newspaper interviews that come one's way once they become an established artist. The journalist (Chris Philipsborn) was nice and clever – not a given these days! We talked at length of what it took to strive for perfection, and specifically – how, having chosen to become an artist, I made it my mission to do my utmost best to not leave any mistakes behind. The talk was over; the photos were taken, and the press party went on their way.
A couple of days passed, and I was sent a copy of the article for proof reading (also not a given these days). It was a big story covering a couple of pages: it was accurate with facts and nicely laid out with accompanying images. We were both pleased with the end result, and so the article was sent to be published. Imagine our horrors – both my own, and that of the journalist – when we saw the paper freshly out from print. The front page had a huge photo of me with a recent portrait.
But once you opened the paper, inside, the title read: 'Artist happy for mistakes to live forever' And there, by simply missing one word (courtesy of the editor who didn't really read the article but had to send it to print real fast, so graced it with his own title and signed it off ), my life's mission was turned upside down. The effort of the journalist who did his best to understand me, the stranger who became a friend in those few hours we spent talking – and did a great job! - was screwed as well. All was wrong and I felt powerless not being able to run after every single copy of the paper and correct it in red - as I did with my own.
I thought that would stay as a little dark stain on my relation with the media indefinitely – maybe not a big deal in the great scheme of things, but no less unpleasant: it is never nice to be misunderstood, or, in this case, so grossly misrepresented. But guess what: forever an optimist, I can't help finding the silver lining in every life's perk. I am writing about it now! I am complaining!!! What could have been better in giving the great British public more pleasure than just that!...
