A tale within the making of a thing.
Outside, it rained and rained.
Photographs weren’t coming.
Inspiration was dry.
Desperate to make something by hand,
I sat and stared at papers, words, pens, paints.
I stuck some bits together, drew some lines…but nothing worked.
My hands felt grubby with glue and annoyed with the itch and no scratch.
But still nothing came.
A blank page.
Day followed Day.
<SCARED OF THE PAGE>
<ANGRY AT THE PAGE>
I’ve got very used to the impermanence of digital work.
Easy to rub out mistakes, go back to an old version.
I realised it was actually quite frightening to make something that I could potentially ruin.
Particularly as I was using ancient letraset and some beautifully printed, but torn, page-lost and tattered, old books.
I decided to just pick something that interested me from one of those lovely books.
As I looked through the pages, I found some really intriguing passages.
Some of these parts-of-books were from the 30’s, the 40’s, one from 1857!
I loved how each paragraph I leaned into threw seeds of a story to me, a time.
Crumbs of some unknown language, somebody else’s long dead thoughts..
I lost some time reading them.
I started to get interested
in what I could do with these things
make them live again
in new form.
I kept on ripping
Tear, Tease, Tear
I layed things out
paired intriguing chapter beginnings
some rubbed on letters
some scratched on lines..
before I knew it,
I had made something.