Thursday, 16 October 2014

How things change

Well, here I was, all set for ten years of making art, when...

it turns out that making art is only one of the creative things I like to do.

Don't get me wrong.  I love making marks that are meaningful and bring pleasure to the eye.  Its just that marks have different ways of communicating. Take what you are currently reading.  Marks on a screen.  They carry inherent and, at times, complicated meaning.  That meaning changes depending on the context of those marks, and even the nature of the one reading.  Not forgetting, of course, the intent of the one making the marks.

So what is my intent with all of this mark making?  

I wish to say something to you, to connect with you, to reach out.  

In the moment that I write these things I merely sit at my kitchen table imagining you, the reader, sitting on the train or at your house or maybe even waiting for a school concert to start.  You have a few minutes and have stumbled across this, and are reading the marks I have made.

It might be a few minutes after I click 'submit' or a few days or a few years, and yet the marks still connect the two of us; you and me.   We exchange pleasantries.  Yes, my day has been fine, as has yours, and yes I am well, as are you.  These are the things we say to each other politely.

On another level we share something more significant.  We each enjoy the marks on the screen, the things they say, the things they don't say.  And so we are here, together, for a moment or two.

Then I will go and walk on my treadmill and you will go to your next thing, each of us thinking about our lives.  But there, in the background is that strange connection that exists when I write and you read. A relationship has started.  This relationship between you and me exists outside of each of us.  You are someone I imagine and I am someone you imagine.

It's probably best that we don't meet.  

I expect we will both be disappointed.  You may have imagined me beautiful when in reality I have a funny red dot on the end of my nose and bags under my eyes that won't go away, even after eight hours of sleep.  And I might have imagined you to be perfect, your life in order, everything as it should be, when in reality there are things you struggle with that you wish weren't so.  

Let's go on imagining together.  Me, making marks.  You, reading marks.  And we shall pick up where we left off all those years ago.

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