’I fancy a gin and tonic’
I said no. Alcohol and morphine. Why? One of my biggest regrets. I used to dislike it, but now it’s my go-to drink. A constant reminder of when I should have been a daughter, not a carer?
A late night conversation which embodies the isolation and hopelessness of it all.
Whenever I go to B&Q, I always want to come home and do some DIY; whenever I visit a beautiful garden, I always want to come home and sort out our garden; whenever I go to an exhibition, I always want to come home and make.
I’ve been feeling in need of a pick me up recently, and so yesterday I headed into London on a hot, Notting Hill Carnival, Bank Holiday Monday to catch Louise Bourgois’ ‘Maman’ on its last day at Tate Modern, the very space for which it was commissioned back in 2000. There’s no doubt that it’s impressive at 9m tall – again, I ask myself whether it’s all about the size, but I think any spider larger than real life would have an impact. I had an overwhelming urge to touch it, but resisted in light of the ‘Please Do Not Touch Sign’. I also found myself wondering how they got it into the building, memories of Johnny Vegas’ struggles coming to mind.
It was well worth the trip, a rare chance to see a piece in the flesh in the very place for which it had been made. Having said that, I’ve seen some images of it in a landscape, which I find particularly effective.
Tate Modern’s website on ‘Maman’:
Louise Bourgeois started making sculptures of spiders in the 1990s. This version is her biggest spider. Its title, Maman, is French for mummy. The artist said spiders reminded her of her mother: ‘Like a spider, my mother was a weaver. My family was in the business of tapestry restoration, and my mother was in charge of the workshop. Like spiders, my mother was very clever … spiders are helpful and protective, just like my mother.‘
I’m a bit behind with things at home, and we’re starting to amass some really impressive cobwebs. I watched as a flying insect became entangled in one of them; in a flash the spider came from nowhere and quickly got to work wrapping it up.
I’m not sure that spiders are clever as such, but they do have great skill. I don’t really think of them as being helpful and protective: they set traps that you can’t see, they ambush you and then swaddle you up until they consume you. Although, I don’t have a problem with them, as they catch flies etc, as long as they are not where they’re not supposed to be, such as on the bedroom ceiling above my head, or in the bed.
Lifelong arachnaphobe, Primo Levi, in his essay ‘The Fear of Spiders’:
“The spider is the enemy-mother who envelops and encompasses, who wants to make us re-enter the womb from which we have issued, bind us tightly and take us back to the impotency of infancy, subject us again to her power…”
I’ve tried not to be either of those spider mothers. I’ve tried not to be suffocating and I’ve tried to resist the urge to fix things. I’ve definitely failed; I often tell my daughter that I’m trying my best, and, when she’s older, not just to remember the times when I’ve not been at my best, like I seem to have done with my own mother. It’s that negative bias again, I suppose. I’m now actively remembering all the times when she was kind and caring, supportive, and all the laughs we had together, which by far outnumber the not so good.
My mother always used to tell me to leave the party whilst I was still having fun.
Fortunately, we were able to make sure that Monty left the party whilst he was still having some fun. And, as I was sitting there in the garden with the sun on my back, stroking him as his heart stopped beating and his last breaths left his body, I thought to myself, not for the first time, why can’t we do this for people?
My mother would have wanted to have had the choice to leave the party while she was still having fun, but she couldn’t, and so she turned to face the corner and disengaged from the party until the bitter end.
I don’t think that I am afraid of death. But I am petrified as to the manner of it. Best to go quickly without warning. If that’s not possible, then I’d like the choice to leave the party whilst I’m still having fun. Who knows? When the time comes to face it, I may decide, what the hell, let’s party until dawn, mine sweep all the half empty glasses and wake up with the mother of all hangovers face down in a puddle of who knows what. But at least it will have been my choice.
Something blue.
On my wedding day, my mother lent me her handkerchief. I never gave it back; I wonder whether that means that it wasn’t borrowed but appropriated, and does that affect its power to confer luck? Probably not, as I only intended to borrow it, and besides as it was over 20 years ago, I think it conferred the requisite good fortune of my mother’s happy marriage.
What’s cyanotyping without a bit of lace?
I’ve also been doing some doodling. I came across an American cyanotype artist, Marie Craig, who uses highlighter pens on her cyanotypes, so I gave it a go on the prints which didn’t really work in Out Of The Blue.
It’s an interesting effect. I’m not sure what I think about it. Maybe it would work better on a different style of image, one with defined lines as opposed to the organic shapes in these images. I’m definitely not ruling it out.
I also took an unsuccessful print of the digital image I made recently and experimented with drawing on it in pen. I had no plan in mind, and just followed some of the shapes. It was a mindless activity, just doodling. Several areas are not particularly successful, but I like the combination of the cyanotype and the pen. I’m not sure how I might use it; I think that I need to explore using some different images.
Last summer I became obsessed with cyanotypes. Then there was plenty of sun. There was some sun the other day, but not much since, so I decided to make myself an exposure unit using my Speedball UV lamp and following instructions on Handprinted. I do love a bit of DIY; there’s something very satisfying about making do with something handmade which didn’t cost a fortune to buy, or require some fancy kit, or having to go to a specialist location.
I used an old printer box which was large enough to take A3 sheets, cut out a hole for the lamp to sit in, and then lined it with aluminium foil.
I selected a few photographs to experiment with; some from the family photos which I’ve been sorting out, and others which I have collected on my phone as inspirational resources, as well as some images from the experiments earlier on in this blog. I converted them all to black and white and then inverted them in Photoshop, printing them off on transparencies. I had to dust off my old printer to do this as I wasn’t sure how to do it on my husband’s printer. This took a while because between each print I had to perform a ritual of pressing certain buttons in a certain order in order to fool the printer into thinking that I was using genuine HP ink cartridges, which I wasn’t. The things you can learn on YouTube.
Ironically, the sun came out, so I did a mix of au naturel and my DIY unit.
The first two prints were made using the unit, the first being over- exposed at 20 minutes, the second being just about right at 15 minutes. The last two prints I did outside in the sun, which was a bit more hit and miss because the strength of the sun was not constant as it kept disappearing behind some cloud cover. However, I do really like the effect of the visible strokes which I left when applying the solution to the paper, which was A4 300g/m2 hot pressed watercolour paper. The markings give the effect of a moving, flickering , transitory image – there, but not quite there. I put two images on the same negative transparency because I wanted to create a number of smaller images to experiment with. However, the suggestion that the images are on a roll of film is really interesting.
It’s been really difficult getting some of the old photographs out of the albums; they are the sort which have sticky pages on which you position the photos, and then put a transparent film over the top. Over the years the adhesive has seized up and practically bonded to the back of the photos. I’ve tried all sorts including gentle heat, dental floss and a bendy, very sharp filleting knife.
This one of my mother and brother is a favourite, but sustained a small tear on the right. I am pleased with both images – the first one was done outside and the second in the unit, which seems to have more of a Prussian Blue hue to it although I’m not sure that there’s any rhyme or reason as to the differentiation in the blues – but I really like the movement in the second one, again giving the impression of a fleeting moment. I think that the solid areas at the top and bottom add to it, suggesting a frame from a film of a moving image.
This is a photo of the statue which sits at the bottom of my mother’s garden next to her makeshift pond made out of an old washing-up bowl. I always used to wander around the garden when I visited, stopping at the pond to see if there were any frogs around. I do like a frog – my grandmother on my father’s side used to have a rockery, and I used to spend most of my visits looking for, and trying to catch frogs. That, and hanging out in her shed and greenhouse with the tomato plants – I love the smell of tomatoes; it takes me right back.
The problem with a cyanotype is that if you leave it too long, you over-expose it, and whilst you get deep blues you lose the midtones, which is what I thought I had done with the first one, so I exposed the second one for less, but it turned out to be under-exposed – even putting it in a hydrogen peroxide bath didn’t help. Both were done outside; perhaps I should have done a straight 15 mins in the unit, but where’s the jeopardy in that?
This is a photo that I took looking up into the branches of the three trees that I like. The negative image is also really interesting, and I might do something with that at a later date. The image (last photo) is underexposed again, but has a feeling of being removed, almost as if I’m looking at it through my window (which incidentally does need a good clean). I wanted to try fabric, but could only find some thin cotton lawn. I was so disappointed – it turned out terribly. I had visions of being able to create long, flowing, billowing, wispy cyanotypes, but ended up with the image above. You can just about make out the branches.
I will need to think about this a bit more. My first thoughts are that maybe there was a coating on the fabric, so I’ve washed it; maybe the image was too detailed, but I’ve seen quite detailed images on fabric; that the structure of the fabric is not robust enough – you can get pretreated fabric which is like a sateen so I could try that; or maybe there wasn’t enough contact between the fabric and the negative. I need to take some time to reflect, and try again.
The images above were from my experiment with ink in Blot II , and from A State of Flow II . It was a useful exercise in that it confirmed to me that not everything works as a cyanotype – I much prefer the original images, particularly the ink one, as the edges between areas of flooding and blots are much more defined, and there is more of a delicacy about them. The contrast between the blue and the black ink also adds interest which is lost in the cyanotype.
So, on reflection a really useful and enjoyable exercise. The thing that I really enjoy about this process is the anticipation, and then the slow reveal as you rinse off the solution to see an image slowly emerge, or not, as the case maybe. Doing it outside as opposed to in the controlled environment of the unit adds a degree of extra excitement, but equally there is the risk of crushing disappointment when it doesn’t quite work out.
Moving forwards, I was intending to experiment with toning some of the smaller images of me with tea, coffee, wine etc, but I actually like the last couple as they are, so I will keep them as finished. I’m thinking about how I could use multiple exposures to create layers, and also thinking about manipulating the source image a bit more in Photoshop and printing from the original image rather than reversing etc. I’m not sure whether I’ll get straight to it, or do something else in the meantime – sometimes I go hell for leather with something and then exhaust it, or myself, or become disenchanted with it. I don’t want to get too far down a rabbit hole, so maybe I should leave a bit of space before going back to it, to allow for some more subconscious reflection. I suppose the clue was in the opening sentence: “Last summer I became obsessed with cyanotypes”, and I haven’t done it since.
I was surprised when Jonathan pointed out in my tutorial that the most frequently used words in my tag cloud were ‘mother’ and ‘drawing’.
I thought that it would be words like ‘death’, ‘emotion’ etc – I feel that I’ve written enough about them. So, I’ve been through all of my posts and checked that I’ve categorised and tagged them correctly. I haven’t. I’ve failed to use more general terms – words like ‘resentment’ and ‘loss’ appeared but not the umbrella term of ‘emotion’. It’s important moving forward that I keep on top of this as the tag cloud will be integral in determining what is important to me.
Having completed that exercise, the words of the moment are ‘emotion’ and ‘process’. That sounds about right…
That wasn’t how the last couple of days were supposed to have gone.
My daughter came home from uni just after our session ended on Tuesday with rapid onset tonsillitis. By Wednesday she was in tears. She is one of the bravest and most stoical people I know, so this unsettled me. It’s heartbreaking watching your child suffer in pain. When I was in pain, my mother used to tell me that, if she could, she would swap places with me. I wish I could say the same, but the truth is my daughter is far better equipped to deal with it than me. When it comes to pain, I don’t mind admitting that I’m a wimp. If there are drugs going that will make me feel better, just pump me full of them – that’s what advances in medical science are for, after all.
I don’t care that I didn’t have a ‘natural’ birth, without pain relief; that she came out of the sunroof. I wasn’t ‘too posh to push’ – she wasn’t going anywhere, and at risk of becoming distressed, and would it have mattered if she hadn’t been, anyway? Is a natural birth somehow superior to one with medical intervention? Why are we told, in that patronising way, that we are not the only woman to have ever given birth? I am the only ‘me’ to have given birth.
Whilst I’m doing my best to keep negativity out of my life, some things do just make me angry. I think it is now generally accepted that women are expected to put up with an unnecessary level of pain when it comes to matters of their health, just because they are women. Studies have shown that women experience pain more intensely, and for more of the time than men. However, they are less likely to have their pain scores recorded, or to be prescribed pain relief than men. Apparently, this is based on the misguided notion that women are more emotional, which means that they may exaggerate the pain they are feeling – after all, ‘hysteria’ comes from the Greek word hystera, which means uterus. Really? There is now a term for this way of thinking: medical misogyny.
It reminds me of a comment made by a male healthcare professional whilst discussing pain relief during the discharge process after an exploratory procedure, which had been initially attempted without sedation. Some women can ‘tolerate’ the ‘discomfort’. I wasn’t putting up with the intense pain. Did I feel like a failure, that I’d somehow let myself and womanhood down; that I should have been able to ‘tolerate’ the ‘discomfort’ like all those women who had gone before? Initially, yes, and it is very intimidating to be in a situation where you are surrounded by healthcare professionals, both men and women, where you feel that you have lost agency over what is being done to your body. Did I look in their eyes for judgement, particularly in the women’s, whilst I dressed, gathered my things and left? Yes. But the word ‘no’ is empowering, and so it was sedation for me. Anyway, getting back on point, I think I made some quip as to knowing what pain feels like, being a woman. He must have interpreted that comment as alluding to a badge of honour as to the amount of pain women can tolerate, as he replied, something along the lines of: “Women can’t have it both ways”.
Anyway, I’ve managed to make it all about me again; that wasn’t how this post was supposed to have gone. After several trips to, and many hours spent in A&E, pain relief, antibiotics, fluids, steroids, and a bit of an exploration up her nose and down her throat with a camera, she’s thankfully on the mend with plans to whip the little troublemakers out in due course.
On the act of creating:
Gompertz reflects on the ability of creatives to think about both the big picture, and the fine detail.
”It requires your mind to constantly go back and forth, one moment concerned with the minutiae, the next stepping away and seeing the broader context… One tiny dab of colour can radically change the appearance of the largest of paintings. Each stroke of the brush is a note struck in a visual concerto; any mistake is as obvious to the viewer as hearing an orchestra member hit a wrong note.”
It’s true that the tiniest detail can make a painting: the small detail of the red sun makes this work by Monet.
Sunrise, 1872, Monet (Wikipedia 7 Jan 2025)
Gompertz describes a visit he made to the studio of Belgian artist, Luc Tuymans.
He is intrigued by Tuymans’ work and its ability to make him want to look closer. Tuymans explains that every painting has a point of entry: a small detail that catches your eye and draws you in. He is influenced by other artists who use this trick: Hopper, Van Eyck and Vermeer. In the case of the latter, Gompertz explains that the point of entry for ‘Girl with a Pearl Earring’ might be assumed to be the highlight on the earring but, in fact, conservators uncovered an alternative point of entry: a small dot of pale pink paint in the corner of her mouth, which serves to change the overall reading of the painting.
Detail ‘Girl With a Pearl Earring, 1665, Vermeer
As an aside, to my mind, the point of entry in Monet’s ‘Sunrise’ above is the red sun, going down through the buildings on the right, the reflection on the water, back up to the boat in the foreground, to the boats behind, up to the buildings in the distance, into the sky and following the directional brushstrokes up to the top righthand corner.
Tuymans completes his paintings within the course of a day; he uses the edge of the canvas as his palette which allows him to work quickly, as does his preconceived detailed plan, which can sometimes have begun many months, if not years, before. In fact, Tuymans goes so far as to plan an entire exhibition upfront before he has even started work, from the relationship between each painting, its size, location, the colour of the wall on which it will hang, and so on. His rationale for treating his work as a unit in this way is that to make sense of it, all of the paintings will need to be seen together, and so he increases the chances of there being a major retrospective of his work once he is dead. Now, that’s seeing the bigger picture!
I’m not really sure what I think about this. Planning work in such an extensive and detailed way seems very restrictive to me. Having said that, I would assume that his planning process includes a prolonged period of experimentation before committing to the final piece, which is why he can complete it in a day. He also uses existing images as a basis for his work, which is likely to reduce the number of questions he has to ask himself.
As for the focus on his legacy, I really can’t make up my mind. I suppose it depends on why artists, and in particular, Tuymans, make art. Is it to make the world a better place? Is it to fulfil the need to express themselves? Is it to leave a lasting mark on the world? Is it to make money? Is it because they simply have to? It’s probably a combination of all of these things, with some being of greater significance than others. I just get the feeling in Tuymans’ case that it’s rather contrived, and predominantly about his legacy. I actually wish that I hadn’t read this about him: for me it is a distraction from his work, which is primarily concerned with people, and their relationships with the past.
John Playfair, 2014, Luc Tuymans & John Playfair, 1824, Henry Raeburn (momus.ca 7/1/25)
I’m reminded of Sean Scully. My mother couldn’t stand Sean Scully. In fact, she didn’t rate Picasso either. I remember a conversation I had with her when she phoned me up one morning: she hadn’t been able to get to sleep the night before, so she had got up, made herself a cup of tea and put the TV on. She ended up watching a documentary on Sean Scully. She hadn’t been able to get to sleep after it either, as she had been so incensed by it. Did I know that his paintings, basically just coloured stripes, sold for millions of pounds? I suspect the problem had arisen because the programme makers had juxtaposed some footage of Scully applying some paint to a canvas in a rather sloppy slapdash fashion with footage of one of his paintings being sold at auction. I think it was one of those ‘I could have done that’ moments, but I resisted the urge to give the obvious answer ‘But you haven’t, have you?’, and instead commented that it’s because he is actually a very astute businessman. From what I understand, Scully controls the supply of his art into the art market, retaining a significant number of works himself, thus reducing supply, increasing demand and driving up prices, whilst at the same time ensuring that there is plenty of his work readily available for retrospectives. Basic economics, really.
Song (1985), Sean Scully approx value 2022 £1.6M (sothebys.com 7/1/25)
It all comes down to the uncomfortable relationship between the creation of art and profit, which Gompertz deals with early on in his book, and which I wasn’t planning on covering, but as I seem to have found myself here anyway…
On money:
At it’s very simplest, if you are a professional artist then you need to earn an income from your work to survive. But the relationship between art and money raises so many questions. Is the problem the amount you earn and what you do with it? Which is more worthwhile – the work of a penniless artist slaving away in a garret, or an artist who plays the game and exploits the brand conscious wealthy consumers? Does the need to earn an income compromise or limit an artist’s ability to express themselves authentically? Sophie, in her post reflecting on the first term, refers to the new sense of creative freedom she has experienced, away from the conveyor belt of producing work which would appeal to past and future buyers of her paintings. It is a subject we’ve touched on briefly in our weekly sessions, and it seems a very delicate balance to get right. I think Gompertz probably sums it up best:
“The intellectual and emotional motivation isn’t profit, but it is an essential component. Profit buys freedom. Freedom provides time. And time, for an artist, is the most valuable of commodities.”
In his book, Gompertz explores the issue of artistic entrepreneurism by starting with the artist who didn’t shy away from the subject of money and materialism by making his art all about them: Andy Warhol.
“Making money is art and working is art and good business is the best art.” Andy Warhol
He then covers the likes of Reubens, an expert salesman, who went off ringing the doorbells of the aristocracy and royalty of Europe whilst his minions worked endlessly in his workshops; Van Gogh and his money man, Theo; and American artist, Theaster Gates, who uses the proceeds of his art to buy and refurbish buildings for use by the community in the South Side of Chicago, where he grew up, thereby regenerating the area and effecting positive social change.
‘Chorus’, 2016, Theaster Gates
I had hoped to have covered much more of the book in this post – it may end up having as many parts as The Godfather! The fact that I have had so much to take note of and comment on, is proof that I am finding it incredibly insightful. I am aware that, at the moment, I’m using this blog for note-making. I have to, otherwise I’ll forget it all. I have lost count of the number of times I’ve read a fact and thought, oh that’s interesting, I must remember that, only for it to disappear again. It infuriates me that I can’t recall facts and statistics at the drop of a hat when having a discussion about something, whilst the other person seems to be able to pluck them out of thin air in support of what they are saying. Or maybe that’s exactly what they are doing – they do say that if you say something with enough confidence people will believe you…
I’ve decided to take a leaf out of Sophie’s book and formalise the thoughts I’ve had since we finished our first term.
I don’t think that I have felt more like myself (whoever that might be) than I have over the course of the last 3 months. I can’t pinpoint why exactly; I’ve just felt like ‘me’.
It has been overwhelming (I suspect that I use this word an awful lot) in the sense that I have been totally free to create and, more importantly, to think about creating. I feel as if I am at the start of an important journey – I don’t want to rush into it; I want to take my time and be prepared. I don’t even know where I’m going – there are no limitations – but I know that I will discover something by the end of it.
I think that I have mostly engaged in the preparation side of things rather than the physical manifestation of work, but that’s been the best bit. I’ve been collecting ideas, inspiration, and information. I think about it most of the time. I’ll have a thought and think, yes, I could use that, and then it’s gone. I need to find a workable way of recording my thoughts – I can’t really open a notebook or Notes on my phone whilst driving – maybe I’ll have to call someone (hands free, of course) and get them to record it for me. Funnily enough, I used to do that: if, whilst at home, I thought of something I needed to do at work the next day, I would call my work phone and leave a voicemail. Just writing that has made me think about what voicemails I might leave younger versions of myself at various points in my life. And that is how it’s been, going off on tangents, suddenly striking up a conversation with whoever I’m with, on the thought I’ve just had.
It has also made me feel anxious – I don’t want to miss anything. I have amassed a large pile of books which I ‘need’ to read. I haven’t really tackled the online library resources with any conviction just yet – the thought of it makes my heart race – all that information out there – how can I take it all in?
The preparation of my study statement has come at just the right time. I need to marshall my thoughts and commit them to words, but in the knowledge that it is a living document which can change over time. I’m actually really looking forward to it as it will bring a sense of calm and order. I hope. Who knows, I might be feeling differently come the beginning of February.
Thinking back on the work I have done over the last few months, I think I have become much freer – I’ve been leaving things as being what I would term as ‘unfinished’ and managing not to go back to them. Making them public by putting them on this blog has helped tremendously. I’m now enjoying the process of making much more than I have previously – it was often an ordeal.
I think I have identified areas which I would like to explore in more depth: I have invested in a book on Procreate (it’s not going to beat me) which I’m working my way through, and I have some ideas in my head as to a series of three digital collages on the subject of motherhood which I may or may not develop further. I like the number three: I am one of three; there are three in my immediate family; there are three trees which together form one tree on my favourite walk near my home; and three is the smallest number by which you can seek the input of others and still avoid a deadlock. Having said that, it’s probably not so great for a friendship group.
I would also like to experiment with printing techniques, photography and a previous obsession, cyanotypes. This term I’m determined to book some sessions and get into CSM on a regular basis.
I’m now able to look back at the three monotypes that I made of my mother. I feel that it was the right thing to do. It was something that I always knew I would have to address and it was something that I had to tackle early doors. I think it has helped. I went back to my mother’s house not so long ago and I didn’t feel the usual sinking feeling of dread as I walked through the front door. I was actually able to sit down by myself in silence and remember some of the good times when we all lived there as a family, even when it became dark outside. A small positive step in the right direction.
As finished pieces of work, they are what they are, vehicles by which I transferred debilitating thoughts into another space. Could I have done them differently or executed them better? Yes, obviously, but I don’t look at them that way; it is what they signify and make me feel that matters: despair, confusion, sadness, resentment, helplessness, isolation and fear. I chose monotype because it is, as soon as it is, and there is no way back. It was all about the process, not the result. If I had to make a change I would change their order – I made them in the order of the conversations – they would work better as a series if their order was reversed, with each one making more sense of the one before.
I took my daughter back to uni at the weekend, and she phoned me up earlier, chasing me for some information I was supposed to give her. My husband chipped in that it wasn’t any wonder that I hadn’t got round to it as I seem to spend all my time blogging – well, if I don’t have anything else to show for the next year and a half, at least I’ll have this blog!
Well, it’s official – I’m now closer to 60 than I am to 50. Ugh!
I seem to have swapped the paraphernalia of parenthood for a bag of drugs, which I routinely plonk in the tray at airport security, hoping that no-one’s looking too closely – two asthma inhalers (a preventer and a reliever), omeprazole for my acid reflux, progesterone tablets, oestrogen gel, and 4 eipipen adrenaline auto-injectors for my tree nut allergy (yep, sorry – I’m that annoying person who prevents you from eating your nuts with your overpriced inflight drinks).
I’m well and truly in the thick of that period of life known as Sniper’s Alley, when one is constantly dodging the bullets of diabetes, heart disease, stroke, cancer and much more. My mother and her brother both died of oesophageal cancer, their brother basically suffocated to death from ‘pigeon fancier’s lung’, their mother nodded off whilst sitting on her sofa and died of a heart attack, and my father and his mother both died after having strokes. Well, it’s a rather limited menu, but if I really have to choose, I think I’ll go for the sofa option, please!
Having said that, life itself is Sniper’s Alley. I was driving my husband to the train station the other morning; he was late and not a little stressed. The traffic lights changed – shall I be an ambler gambler? I don’t think so. There was a deep sigh and a hand raised to the head on my left as stress levels increased. Luckily the lights changed to green quite quickly. As we rounded the bend, a truck had shed its load of scaffolding poles into our lane, only shortly before. “We could have been under that, had I not stopped at the lights”, I observed.
It was a ‘Sliding Doors’ moment. The idea of an alternative life based on the decisions I have made really intrigues me. To a certain extent, I think that I was meant to make the choices I did, when I did, in a nod to fate, but, nevertheless, imagining my own ‘Midnight Library’ has its attractions.
I recently read a book called ‘The Gentleman from Peru’ by André Aciman. I saw it in Waterstones and bought it just because I liked the cover. A group of American college friends are on a sailing trip in the Mediterranean when there is a problem with their yacht, and they have to stay at a hotel on the Amalfi Coast whilst it is being repaired. They meet an elderly gentleman, and the book centres on their relationship with this mysterious character. During one of their conversations he says:
“We may no longer be the person we once were, but what if this person did not necessarily die but continued his life in the shadowland of our own, so that you could say that our life is filled with shadow-selves who continue to tag along and to beckon us in all directions even as we live our own lives – all these selves clamouring to have their say, their time, their life, if only we listened and gave into them…
…The old self, the new self, the shadow-self, self number seven or eleven, the self we always knew we were but never became, the self we left behind and never recovered, the might-have-been self that couldn’t be but might still be, though we both fear yet hope it might come along one day and rescue us from the person we’ve had to be all our years.
But as I said, it’s not just the past that haunts us. What haunts us with equal magnitude is what has not happened yet, for there are shadow-selves and shadow-lives waiting in the wings all the time. We are constantly reworking or reinventing both the past and the future. Sometimes we’re in the street or in a crowded bus, and we just know: that one day this person whose glance we caught or whose path we just crossed is another version of someone we know we’ve loved before and have yet to love again. But that person could just as easily be us in another body. And the beauty of it is that they feel it just as much as we do. Is this other person us or is it someone destined for us whom we keep missing each lifetime? Us in others, isn’t this the definition of love?”.
How happy am I that my ‘might-have-been’ 18 year old shadow-self has finally caught up, and rescued me? Better late, than never.
Kate McCalmont-Woods 