With half a bottle of good Italian red wine inside me perhaps I could be forgiven for seeing the world in an unusual way this evening. (We celebrated my birthday dinner tonight.) Today has, however, been a strange one.
The other day I received a surprising request. Way back in 1987 I was involved in a scheme to bring an ancient design of fishing boat from Lake Ohrid (in Macedonia) to a maritime museum in this country. Out of the blue I had an email enquiring about the location of the boat, from somebody in Macedonia, and we have begun a correspondence about that project. For a long time now I have had, on top of my bookshelves, a large box of unsorted photographic slides, and this approach prompted me today to take down the box to see if it contained anything of relevance to the enquiry. I was delighted to be able to put my hand on two boxes of slides relatively quickly. Sorting through this material, however, did prompt some very curious feelings.
Faced with many of my old photographs I found myself asking, “Where on earth was that?” or, if I recognised the location, “Why did I ever bother to take that picture?” So much of what I had recorded as important at the time now seems to be of very questionable relevance or interest. It is almost as if the past that is recorded in these images actually belongs to somebody else.
The sudden intrusion of this alien past stands in contrast to my recent engagement with early memories. I have been toying for some time with a composition based upon a childhood memory, and have even gone to the extent to enquiring about the availability of models for the two figures involved. There is, however, no record at all of the event I have in mind, which exists only within my own memory. It carries a powerful sense of reality despite its complete subjectivity. These other experiences, which are amply validated in photographs, almost seem to have no claim on my belief in them. For that reason, however, I doubt that I could possibly utilise them as the basis for artistic creativity.
The birthday cake prepared by my wife is excellent. It is basically a Christmas cake without the icing, but full of fruit and amply marinaded in brandy. I have decided to name it “Fruity McFruit Face.” British readers will recognise the reference there, although I acknowledge the likelihood that it will come across as complete nonsense to others.