Frieda Hughes: The peculiar anxiety of hosting your own party (or art exhibition)
In her weekly poetry column, poet and artist Frieda Hughes describes the strange anxiety of hosting her own art exhibition
For three years I’ve drawn rooms and hallways, balconies and doorways,
Stained glass windows and metal gates festooned with leaves, poppies,
And an eight-foot heron. For three years the builders came and went daily,
Becoming seemingly permanent; their recent departure was deafening.
Their absence stalked me as I planted the last flowerbeds for an imaginary audience.
Now these are the final moments before the first guests arrive;
Three years in the making, the gallery and studios will be open to others.
They will wander the hallways with wine glass in hand
In front of the many colours of my many canvases. Until then,
I clean trays for snacks, order food for trays and napkins for lips,
Sweep the car park, wash windows, wipe thresholds, pull bitter cress and nettles
From herbaceous borders, weed the gaps between pavers, twist cobwebs from porches
Like candy floss on canes, polish the champagne glasses,
Order signage and ice buckets, vacuum the floorboards, buy flowers, breathe,
And think of the people I haven’t seen for longer than Covid.
We are all older. Afterwards, I shall paint trees and sheep and sleep;
I shall comb the hairiest husky until he is sleek and electric;
I shall declutter my wardrobe and recycle shoes, and soak in the bath like a tea bag
Until my flesh puckers and the water sallows and chills;
I shall dance to the noises of birds on my metal tree balcony.