Monday 8th March 2010

Take bike to shop for third time in ten days and upgrade back tyre. Leave late for International Women’s day event and miss the crowd. It is absolutely freezing. I know the women “manning” the stalls could be tough cookies but still manage to draw over half of those whom I ask, including a very well informed man who has worked for one of the charities concerned with identifying and supporting women who have been forced into prostitution against their will. He is aware of the enormous complexities around the issue, it is a difficult cause to support. He works now for a development magazine and points out an article about a Bengali prostitute (and mother of eight) with the headline: “I never want to be rescued again.”

The stalls close and I too am packing up when by chance I over hear a conversation between a young white South African man and a young black London woman, both of whom work for the security company staffing the event. They are discussing the South African government's decision to legalise prostitution for the short duration of the World Cup in order to introduce compulsory health checks. Both of them agree that is a regressive and stupid, the law should not be limited by the duration of a game!

The girl comes from Manor House. She says there is a lot of street prostitution on Amhurst Road, the main road through Stamford Hill, and that the local Hasidic men are the clients. She says it is hardly surprising given how restrictive the Hassid’s are. She said, ‘Women are force to look like nothing and the have to have sex through a whole in sheet’. I say that I think that is only on their nuptial night, but I am not sure about this. She tells me that she knows a number of girls who frequently have sex for money but do not see themselves as prostitutes. ‘They want to have a lot of sex, they like it’ she adds. “They can make good money. I wouldn’t do it’ she said. ‘For me, sex involves emotions’.


I do not have much time, but feel that as a point of principle I must draw in Tate Modern. I go for lunch in the member’s room and see someone I had drawn at the Place party some days ago. I start off drawing her friend and that leads quite easily on to a few others.

Dash back north. Collect Bright Eyes late. Cook, eat and head off to Burlington Gardens where one of the charities from this morning’s Women’s event is holding a fundraiser at The Haunch of Vennison gallery, hosted by Damian Hurst. I am on time for once and they are running somewhat late. A small queue has formed outside. I draw a journalist from the Times, the head of Sky Arts and a few others. Once the doors are open it is harder to stop people. The way they arrive, climbing out of taxis and chauffer driven cars, immaculate, buffed up, tall, skinny, wearing designer shoes, coats and carrying hand bags costing thousands, and breeze up the steps make me feel very small and very cold and very, very marginal. These things are all relative, but again it clarifies for me why some people choose sex work. If you are totally on the outside of economic possibility, you might well think that you have much more to gain than to loose. One exploitative job is much the same as any other.

Cycle back via Covent Garden and notice a crowd in The Poetry Café. A pretty boy is standing outside. He is very charming and confident. It turns out he’s a model. It’s really shit he says, but the money is very good. He is evidently well heeled and suggests that his mum should commission portraits of himself and his brother. His eyes light up; he says she would love it if I drew her dog! I’d be most welcome to come and stay with the family in Norfolk. I say, I do not draw dog portraits.