Regatta at Cowes (1934) Raoul Dufy (Wiki Commons)

Here's the quandary: Do I want to create art, or view it?

It is the same quandary I've had about writing, although to a lesser degree, but only because I have been reading since I was three, living in houses full of books, a world full of the written word. So I really cannot help reading. One reads to be entertained, to become informed, to find out about places to visit, about new foods, about why one's family acts that way...all sorts of reasons.

One does not view art for any of those reasons. Well, all right, possibly to find new places to visit, although even that function has been diminished first by colour photography becoming widely available to everyone, and now by instant colour photography being practiced by everyone in the universe via smartphones, I think, except my husband and me. (His mobile phone is an artefact; mine is somewhat newer, but it's a pay-as-you-go because the ONLY reason I have it is in case the car breaks down and I need to call AA.)

Those who can, do....etc.

So: the quandary, particularly poignant this week of Cornwall Open Studios, is to go and view or stay home and create.

There is one artist whose work I very much want to see. She's a glass artist. She creates stunningly beautiful stuff. I'd like to own a piece.

But is it worth taking a day off from painting, writing and promoting to do it?

I honestly don't know. I could ask the New Age goat-from-sheep question: What would I do if money were no object?

Oddly, it doesn't apply to this. I can afford the tank of gas, and even lunch. And possibly a piece of glass art.

What would I do if time were no object: maybe that's the better question in this situation.

Yes, it is. I KNOW what I would do. I would stay in my studio/office painting and writing (while trying to shift the promotion tasks to my long-suffering spouse), and make an appointment with the glass artist when I happen to be in the area for other reasons, thereby not wasting any of my time or hers.

This begins to sound like I don't care for galleries and museums, surely an odd attitude for an artist.

But not for me. I loathe libraries, really loathe them. Aside from the damage the internet did to freelance journalism income, it was in many ways a godsend. I never had to go to libraries after that. (Well, not often.) And the arrival, in the US, of bookstores with coffee shops--Barnes & Noble, the late, lamented Borders, Books-A-Million--meant I could browse the NEW books and magazines, the things I really needed to know about and that the library rarely had. And I could have a cup of coffee and a bagel at the same time. In the UK, I was happy to find Waterstone's: same reason. And I admit to having been in both of them in Plymouth (and their coffee shops) many, many times, and one in Norwich.

A New York state of mind

But back to art. When I lived in New York, I would stop in galleries as I passed them. Noortman & Brod was on one of my east side shopping treks, and I have a little Henry Bright drawing I bought one day. (He was a British artist, so the work has now been repatriated.) I would stop in Hammer Galleries on West 57th Street; there I only looked. Too pricey by half.

I stopped once in a tiny gallery on West 55th, behind a newsagent's. There I saw a Dufy for which I could have taken a loan...really, not THAT expensive, but certainly more than I had on hand. And oh, to own a Dufy. (It's true; we only regret the things we DIDN'T do, as a wise man told me at the start of one of my careers or other.)

Ancient art got some face time

Anyway, gallery and museum-going was part of my life, and I saw lots and lots of things without effort. Lazy? Maybe. But driving for hours to see things I can see on the internet, when I have things I want to do and, yes, put up on the internet (where so much is sold anyway)...well, it won't happen this year. I feel slightly guilty about it. I did spend a day going to Chedworth Roman Villa a few weeks ago. But then, I couldn't see Roman ruins in New York City. And having studied Latin for six years in my youth, the whole Roman milieu had got under my skin.

I expect I'll spend the drive-time this week visiting either the Chalk Horse (you may recall I'm something of a horse nut, so it combines two things, ancient history and horses) or a grand house. Not Saltram; it's filled with Canalettos, but I've viewed them a good number of times already. A new collection at a new house, I think. And it will have to be in Wiltshire, Dorset, Somerset or Gloucestershire, because I've spent the last seven years haunting the grand manses of Cornwall and Devon, having started visiting National Trust houses on holidays in our flat even before we moved here permanently.

Perhaps I should apologize to all the wonderful Cornish artists whose work I probably won't see in one fell swoop. Or I could put it another way: I'd rather join the ranks than gawk at them, and the easel beckons.

Thanks for your understanding.