NOT A PICASSO

Top of the year wobbles again. It’s the juxtaposition of party and reality that I don’t understand. We watched the fireworks, circling and booming from the Wheel. Cheers went up from the crowded embankment.

“I never want to go,” said Sammy, next to me on the sofa.

“Yeah. Me neither,” I replied, though I expect for slightly different reasons. Chiefly for me, not having a clue what we’re celebrating.

New Year!

Yes, of course. But what? The brilliant year gone by? Maybe 5% of us can say it was brilliant but I’d be surprised if it were any more than that. Not 2025 then, the optimism and hope for 2026!

That’s like cheering for a blank canvas. But not a canvas in Picasso’s studio that stands a high chance of becoming a masterpiece. No. This blank canvas is going to be splattered on by everyone. 

Everyone, everywhere is going to pick up paint and hurl it at the easel, flinging joy and sorrow and hilarity and noise all at once, all together, for the next 365 days. And what will that produce? Not a Picasso. That’s going to make a mess.

Sorry if this is a bit of a downer for a New Year’s Day. I’ve got a cold and I think it’s playing havoc with my emotions. I should be more hopeful shouldn’t I? I should be more excited about what I can do, what difference I can make to my own artwork of 2026.

But even then, when New Year’s Eve rolls around again, I can’t see myself whooping and cheering about such a personal thing with ten thousand chilly people in Central London.

“I mean, how are they all going to get home?” I asked out loud. Sammy nodded sagely.