Foreword

At the time of writing, I would say that we have not even begun to process the events of 2020 let alone the ongoing consequences of this extraordinary time. If I cast my mind back to December 2019, I can remember feeling excited about the year ahead. Excited about people, places and new projects. Travel and time out. Making sculptures, finishing that book and something closer to home perhaps. How about doing a painting every day and producing a more intimate record of my life? It would have to be in watercolours. Oils would be too slow. It could be interesting, I thought. Little did I know quite how ‘interesting’ and how vital this modest project would become.

On the painting front, I was a little rusty. Part of my impulse to embark on the project being most definitely a desire to regain some of the fluency of my student days. The confidence that only comes through a constant scribbling and recording of one’s surroundings. Something that was part of the tool kit of an art student back in the day. Unfortunately, what I had hoped would be an accomplished daily flourish, would more often descend into several hours of anxious experimentation resulting in either an abortive or deeply unsatisfactory rendition of what was in front of me.

As the weeks passed, my technique developed and I became more relaxed. The ‘daily’ commitment becoming more of a contemplative act than a requirement to necessarily produce something. More often than not, I would complete a painting. But there were exceptions. Some images refusing to resolve themselves, thus requiring my attentions over a period of days. Hence the rather untidy admission that I did not actually produce 365 paintings in 2020. I did however paint every day, including Christmas, when I resolved to capture my turkey dinner as it cooled on the plate.

I assumed at the start that a record of my daily life might feature many things. People, places, bars, cafes and parties for sure. Colleagues and random strangers perhaps? Due to my personal circumstances in lock-down, it became something else. A life lived out at home, alone. Punctuated by walks along the river and occasional rather fraught trips to the supermarket, all underwritten by an unhealthy obsession with the rolling news. And so, the year played out visually for me through the changing plumage of the trees, distant views of people in the park, portraits of sweaty politicians and various internal states expressed through portraits of myself. Oh yes, and let’s not forget the seasonal vegetables and the Kipling cakes. It was certainly different.

As we contemplate ‘new normalities’ and ‘re-sets’, I find myself already nostalgic for 2020. Days spent studying the head of a cauliflower. Days in the eye of the storm, when capturing the exact colour of a red onion was paramount. I will not forget those days.

Cathy Phelan-Watkins:
June 2021