ZINE: Holiday, now

I have spent seven out of the last seventeen
months alone. It started before
the pandemic. After spending two years
working 40hrs a week at a physically
and mentally engaging job, I decided
that I needed to reset and re-enter
my own art practice by self-isolating
in my long dead grandparents’ house
for three months. It sounds far more
romantic than it was. I spent the first
six weeks lying on the couch watching
Love Island (my first foray into reality
TV watching – which, on reflection I
can attribute to deep feelings of loneliness
and needing the buzz of idiots
talking), doing a puzzle, cooking and
eating in an eight hour window, feeling
guilty about not being productive
and generally hating myself. I remember
sitting on the couch with my neck
craned toward the TV and getting a
sore neck depending on what side I was
on, so I had to remind myself to switch
sides of the couch every few hours to
stay balanced. Or switch to a chair…
yes it was really that many hours.
And then I stopped letting myself feel
guilty for wasting time. This revelation
was not a miraculous fix-all but slowly
I built a routine. Every morning I
did yoga, then went to the local coffee
shop to do some work on the computer
and engage in brief small-talk with
Frank, the shop owner, and when I returned
home, I had to go straight to
my studio space to work. Do not pass
go, do not collect $200—straight to
the studio. I would stay at the studio
until I lost the light and then I would
walk to the kitchen to make dinner,
watch some TV, go to sleep and the
day would begin again. It was simple
yet those small routines enabled me to
work. After about six weeks of this I
left isolation and returned to my life
in Madrid.
Six months later the pandemic hit in
full force and Madrid underwent one
of the strictest lockdowns in the world
for three months and I was stuck alone
in my apartment. It was almost like a
big joke. Haha you wanted isolation
so here you go! Three more months!
Obviously this time there were very
different circumstances: a pandemic,
thousands of people dying every day.
I remember hearing that the ice rink
in the IFEMA convention center (the
same location where I had visited the
ARCO art fair the previous month)
was being used as a morgue for the
makeshift hospital ward set up next
door. The other thing that was different
was that I was not alone in my isolation
this time. Well, yes, physically I
was alone in my house. But the rest of
the world was also in isolation which
meant that time did not move. Well,
time moved but no one had momentum.
And suddenly, I felt free of the
guilt that I had been riddled with the
previous summer. I realized how deeply
this anxiety was linked to time and
fearing that the world was moving on
without me.
Ironically, because of my previous intentional
isolation, I had unbeknownst
to me, trained for this lockdown. I had
practiced for it. So I began my routine
again. I taught yoga every morning
which meant I had to go to sleep at a
reasonable time each night. I cleaned
the house every Sunday. I had drinks
on the balcony with neighbors on
neighboring balconies. I did a puzzle,
made a painting of a giant strawberry,
read a lot of books, and listened to
even more podcasts. I learned how to
organize myself - something I had never
allowed myself time to do before.
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