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| final bits of fabric, final cone of yarn |
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| different ways of winding |
Held safely? Held impenetrably? How can I get at these memories now ... could you get at them, if you wanted to? Unwinding the ball of thread, can I share my memories with you? Would either of us want to make that effort? Would the ball itself - its surface - be sufficient for us to be able to connect with each other, with the place, as we talk about it and what it holds? How is living different from remembering? How is remembering a part of living? Do we only have an identity because we have a memory?
How, you may well ask, is this a book? Well, it has sequence and it contains a narrative. Not text, but a narrative just the same. It can't be opened and "read" ... but I did document its making, and running through those photos allows for the construction of your own narrative.
this is such a wonderful metaphor. I'm thinking about what happens when the ball unwinds and the memories slip away -- or when the ball falls into a pot of glue and can't unwind any more
ReplyDeleteI like how the white obscures the colour with only hints...like the passing of time does to memories once vivid.
ReplyDeleteSandy
I feel like using a crochet hook to poke and see what I can withdraw without anyone knowing I have intruded into this oh so private place. I am tempted because I know the memories are there due to having read the postings about it. or.... Perhaps I could introduce a foreign fragment to replace your memory with one of mine..... a transplant....... I could do it with surgical precision!!!!!!!!!!!!I would make my artwork inside yours!
ReplyDeleteIrene MacWilliam