Clearing out boxes of old photos is an odd business. It unearths reminders of identity that were self amputated with rusted can opener (metaphorically of course). In this case it is the sculpture in this photo. The black and white not is an indicator of age but of a time when I was being unfortunately arty.
The sculpture in the photo is a long discarded artifact of that period. It was a result of a time when I had access to a communal “studio” space. Essentially a high ceiling, unheated room with power tools and lots of wood. Getting these meant crossing a snow-covered landscape at horribly early hours of the morning. The resulting “work” ended up (much to my shock) in an exhibition. Then it spent a few years in the living room of the hovel I shared. My roommates seem to like it as did the people who got the thing into the art show.
I must admit I did enjoy watching the sunlight play on the wood and string that made up the thing. It had a strange silence about it. Yet it was a sure-fire conversation starter. The inspiration came from Italio Calvino’s Invisible Cities.
The thing was rather the large. Over 2m tall and had the volume of a telephone box. it didn’t take my nomadic life of frequent apartment moves very well. Hauling it around as a hassle as well. We eventually parted company at a pile of discarded furniture. I must have walked away received not to haul it up another flight of stairs.
Looking at this photo I have no regrets. I admit I enjoyed making it and later looking at it. Yet it I refuse to accept that I am some sort of “artist”. It’s a phase of my past that I have discarded willingly though residues of it causes time-wasting relapses. As with all things, such relapses, as with the phase of life this sculpture represents, are transient.