Art heals. I've no uncertainty here. It does. It soothes.

Saturday, I felt listless; something I was going to do with someone I like, did n't happen. That's all I'll say.

Moods, every one knows, do n't respect the calendar, they'll weave in and out of days. They run outside clock time.

So Saturday's tail-end slump woke up with me on Sunday morning. Dragged it's heels alongside mine, until I reached the gallery I volunteer at. Through that door a blazing world of colour, paint, freshness, ideas, shapes, angles, oddities of expression. Whiffs of bright, clear air. Into the light.

Once my sense of wonder is re-lit I'm good to go.

The creative spark in general is something I'm intrigued about. Can it be taught ? Is it innate ? Borne out of years of slog and graft? All of the above or a combination?

There's a large table full of books in the Tate Modern shop devoted to creativity: inspirational in the main, almost evangelical in a few cases.

Lots of lessons. Life stories. Incidents. But the key to it all, which seems to remain unmentioned, or is, but perhaps, just in the smallest font size print, is this: just do it. Stare the blank screen out, face down the empty canvass, and start with something. Anything.