Recently I have been consumed by 43 years of history. Dispersing my storage space, tidying, filing, bookkeeping, sorting. The stuff that goes on behind the creativity.
The last time I wrote (Barcelona blog) was 18th September 2013, can it have been that long since I have looked, since I have thought. In Barcelona I was adrift, I described myself as a dandilion seed, I felt ‘light’ and ‘so free’ it made me ‘want to cry’.
Here, now, in Winter, it has not been the same.
I have been heavy.
But in Arnos Vale, pea green garlic leaves bravely unfurl from graves, they are tender but have strength as they curl out through history. With bones below they push through last years fall, feed from it, to get to the light.
That low light has long arms and it reaches into the studio,
it warms the concrete floor and I too start to push through.
And with the light I start to see things.
And from some dark recess of my mind, my sculpture comes home.
And I am back.
With the light I can see. I can see something that I have been thinking about for years and not fully resolved. My fragment pieces contain history, they are part of a time gone, the image has moved on from this, it has been cast and is now perfect but this, like a memory, is disjointed.