There’s a soft hum entering through the open windows. Down the hill there, nestled at the water’s edge, the city slowly wakes. Its voice rises up on a gentle mist to greet me. I can look down on the city from here and see that today it is all awash with silver and white. Light, not snow. A summer mist. Not a breath of wind. The sunshine, shrouded, waits.
Inspiration. Where does it come from and where does it go?
As I began to ponder this question a few weeks ago my own inspiration slipped away. How curious. Perhaps this is not something that should be questioned? Considering inspiration and ideas has led me down some twisting, endless paths lately. I’ve only just begun to take the first steps on all their diverging trails.
I like to think that, so far, I have the beginning sketch for a map that I will eventually be able to fill in in detail.
A few marker points on my map so far…
Other Artists and their Art
Nature as Artist/Designer/Creative force
Memory as history
Objects as memory / mnemonic objects
Inscriptions (on books and other objects)
Peoples personal stories
The traditions of discovering/recording/sharing knowledge and how it eventually becomes history
Cabinets of curiosities
Collections (public/museums and private)
Methods of display and labelling of collections of objects (compartments, boxes, labels, files -A container for everything)
Books (especially about nature, or novels)
Letters (inc postcards and other communication)
Archaeology (lost or buried treasure or everyday items)
My research/learning about particular stories or objects
My research/learning about Memory/ Collections/ History etc
"And sometimes aterwards in the dark winter evenings the childern would ask Peter if they could look at his museum; and he would open his box and take out all the things he had collected. Then they would examine everything all over again and talk of the wonderful times they had had. They would look at the cloudy water in the little bottle and remember how deep and fast the water had rushed along the flooded river bed; and they would touch the piece of burned wood and remember how bright were the flames of fire at Melbury Farm. Then they would shut up the box and put it away, and hope very much that when the summer days came again they would be able to harness Dobbin the horse to the green and yellow caravan and drive away once more in search of adventures."