Dulltown, UK: Today’s elephant in the room is the one ignoring all the guests and listening to Barry Manilow albums on his headphones.
Well, there wasn’t supposed to be a ‘part three’ to go with the other two posts about my dreamed drawing; I thought that dragging it out to two separate posts was pushing it a bit, but three! (Part One) (Part Two)
However, (I love the word ‘however’!) however, a day or two ago I was walking past the drawing, which was still clipped on my drawing board, and the thought struck me how odd it was that a tiny bit of random bubbling cell activity, a couple of silly neurons sparking away in the old brain in the early hours of the morning, producing a dream in my fuddled sleeping mind, composed from dredged-up memory mixed with a teaspoonful of lurking deeply buried anxiety, was the tiny seed from which some pencil lines on paper eventually emerged out here in the real world. (I think that is the longest sentence I have ever written in my life; this is like bloody Dostoyevsky!)
Just think, if I had not remembered that dream, I don’t remember them usually, (‘Thank god!…’ I hear you murmur) and had I not bothered to grab my little bedside notepad and pen and sketch the thing that I was busy working on in dreamland, this piece of art would not exist, and people all over the world (I flatter myself) and you dear reader, would be totally unaware of it.
It’s good to have little pads and notebooks scattered around the house, or to have one in your pocket when you go out. It is surprising what these quickly jotted words or roughly sketched things, these ‘seeds’, can sometimes grow into. Picture old Leo da Vinci fishing in his trouser pocket for a small coin to flick at a beggar in the filthy streets of 16th c. Florence, coming across a crumpled piece of paper, a note to himself – Tuesday: Go and ask Mona Lisa del Giocondo if she still wants that portrait doing. ‘Oh yes,’ says Leo, ‘I’d forgotten about that job… I’ll pop round there right now on the way to the butchers…’
Or Napoleon swigging back a glass of wine and noticing something scribbled on his shirt cuff in red ink, Monday afternoon: Don’t forget to invade Russia – remember to take snow shoes!
But, that’s the thing about great events being serendipitously sparked isn’t it? Things in the real world that people can see, and possibly like, or hate, can have their origins in the tiniest of spontaneous brain flickers – the flapping of a butterfly’s wing in Whanganui can result in something large pretentious and trite being exhibited in The Turner Prize show thousands of miles away a few months later.
But you get the idea… Ah, here I am sitting in that same cafe a week or two later still writing about something in a silly dream… Part 3…