The art and craft of Soul Mining #2 Munch

Christmas always gives me a heavy dose of melancholy.
It's the odd interzone between the old and the new, a stocktaking period for that 24-7 small business otherwise known as The Self - or big bad old ME. Profits and losses, net gains, write offs, tax breaks (serendipity), and of course, the possibility of downsizing or even - touch wood - expansion, are all factors that have to be crunched into the personality equation, to gauge the relative merits and demerits of this very peculiar body and soul brand.

I guess I can say, quite justifiably really, that I have expanded the Biz this year: I have relocated and gone into partnership, 'amalgamated' with another. Scary stuff, having to share everything, exposing your bachelor anality (and bare arse) to another soul, opening all the books and letting it all hang out...or 'fall out' rather - like a cupboard where you've jammed in all the stuff you didn't really need, but thought you might use one day and now realize its just junk or an anchor holding you back.

I feel a bit empty at Christmas time like a lot of other people I suppose because of this accounting process. I really try let go and enjoy myself, but I'm all too often gripped by nostalgia and melancholy and a feeling of being trapped between worlds: wanting the new year to begin and the old to sink into the neat profit and loss spreadsheet without the messy number crunching bit.



For me, Edvard Munch's winter paintings always seem to capture this peculiar betwixt and between state of mind at this time of year. There's a yearning and hope in these images, but also a sense of great or even monumental loss. Munch's sketchy, scribbly textures, brushstrokes, and swirling lines illustrate the icy indeterminacy of 'Yule', its nocturnal bullying and enforced introspection.

Since moving to Scotland and spending these unseasonably severe last few weeks here, Munch's landscapes have taken on another dimension for me: I can genuinely appreciate the sense of Northern, Scandinavian isolation - both good and bad. 'Good' in the sense that I feel a coziness and peacefulness away from the post-industrial sprawl of the Midlands - or the hysterical buzz of greater London for example - and bad in that I am often forced deep into myself psychologically and physically too of course.

Munch's paintings depict a quietness and loneliness that I haven't truly felt before - and this isn't me feeling 'alone' with myself, I have a great relationship with my girlfriend and enjoy the Scots traditional approach to Chrimbo - its more the sense of being separated from the larger world, like everybody is being pulled apart at this time of year, freezing up into little islands until the thaw, the forced jollity just the multifaceted glimmer of ice. Millions of Dormice mentally hibernating.
I suppose we're all doing a bit of self-assessment and strategic planning for the new year.