Or Inspecting the Instigation of Inspiration…
I keep getting asked about inspiration – from where does it come, how does it arrive, where does it take you…
Is it a tempest or a slow wave rising, a wild horse with no bridle or a pair of timid eyes you have to coax out of the underbrush (trust a Canadian to think in forestry terms when his mind wanders…) into the sun-dappled clearings of your mind?
Whether you have to continually check on your subscription to the Muse’s mailing list or whether inspiration is a pesky moulting harpy perching on your shoulder repeatedly squawking “Polly want a ‘raser?”, it’s always the same question: something of relatively little importance which is your prime reason for being you…
Honestly, I can’t say, (Not that this is going to in any way stop me from being verbose – at length – on the subject, though.)
I think it comes down to worlds.
Three of them.
The world in which we live.
The world of words we are enticed to enter (suspend belief at the door please, you can pick it up on the way out).
The world somewhere between the first two, where your images are.
This third sphere is the secret one, the walled garden where the carefully tended flowers blossom or the blasted heath where the cauldron steams and bubbles.
It is pellucid or adumbrate, cluttered or spotless and it’s the place where even your closest friends can’t go. But you can show them the travel pics…
Well…
The other day we had the privilege of stepping through the last portal into somewhere like that.
Tell you about it next week.
This week, until I get my stitches out, drawing the commonest of things has suddenly assumed unforseeable proportions, and my normally vagabond spirit, which spends time off wandering when I draw, has been concentrating on developing novel ways to hold brushes and pencils.
It’s like learning to write in kindergarten all over again.
BEEN THERE, SIGNED THAT
Back alive from Zurich, where we were wonderfully well treated, except that I forgot to pick up any DVDs… More accustomed to signing books, it’s the first time I’ve signed shoes, t-shirts and… underwear.
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Photo: Barbara Sigg
GOLDEN MOULDIES
A friend sent me this, not exactly an antique, but nonetheless, it has gone into my rare book cabinet.
The first paperback edition of the Hobbit in France, in 1969. Not only is the cover absolutely enchanting (by Sylvian Nuccio), but on the back we learn that thanks to a Ring stolen from the Wood Elves(!), this aimiable little character with slippers for feet can become invisible. But will the Ring and Gandalf’s help be enough to win the Battle of the Five Armies and regain a fabulous treasure?
I’ll let you know when I’ve finished reading…
Hope there’s a sequel.
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REFRESHING
It’s always reassuring to know there are people out there with time and creativity to spare…
