Old prints from a walk in a Pre-Dumbo Dumbo, on top of expired Polaroid 4x5, held up by books that are on top of a box with other books and models of wind turbines. This next to a box with cards and music packaging, all designed a long time ago. Oh, and then there is a little bottle of spirited hey, wrapped at a store in Diener Straße in Munich.
I enjoy it so much when layers of memory remix themselves right on the spot, right next to me, right in front of me. On purpose, or simply because it is their nature. As if time and gravity and magnetism were the same thing. (No thing at all, but amazing forces.)
The sky before sunrise looked like a Rothko painting, but in motion, ephemeral, shifting from north to south, as the wind seems to be blowing recently.
So much more I have to dive into. So much more I need to understand. It is quite pleasant to discover old pieces of information, sent towards the future that is turning into a past, right this second. I took photos of hundreds of drawings yesterday. And I might need to take many more. It does not mean that there is any sense to all this. But there might be, if I just let them ripen enough.
I used to enjoy it so much when cold plasticine slowly turned from a cold piece of debris into a soft and malleable something in my hand. I also enjoyed pushing it through various objects and into various objects. With the concentration and relentlessness that only a four year old can have, when left alone in a silent apartment. One way to experience the pleasure of creation is to be able to apply this malleability to every simple benign task, to every interaction with objects. Mastery of the opening of a book perhaps? Mastery of the pronunciation of the letter T?
I am not sure it takes ten thousand hours to do everything well. It might take that long to imagine a rabbit perhaps, or a fish in a pond of clear water? I think that the attempt to nail a simple number to anything should go right to that same place that promises a better life in six simple steps, or some sort of recovery in twelve.
It might be time to step away from simplicity. It has done enough damage for now.
There is a big difference between a two year old and an adult peeling an egg. But I think I am starting to understand which one is more important. Or more fascinating, or more meaningful.
I should try to peel this strange reality around here. I wonder if it is cooked inside.