Memories With Art

A Note From Me First

One of this year's Blaugust prompts is to write a guest post on someone else's blog. James and I decided to do it both ways: he wrote the piece below, and I wrote I Thought It Was A Tire. Go read his side of the swap once you're done here.

James and I have been trading posts for a while now, and it's one of my favorite things about keeping a site. You write something, someone writes something back, and the web gets a little warmer for it. This is the first time we've done it as a proper guest post, though.

Everything from here down is his. Thank you, James.

Memories With Art, By James

Close your eyes. Picture a painting you love, or think of a piece of music you love. Where are you? What stands out? How do you feel?

I am entranced. Moments earlier, I was ready to leave the gallery, having spent time with paintings of Nature, the names of whose painters I cannot presently remember but whose works have left a strong impression in my memory. I see in my memory the time I have spent looking at the countrysides in the museum hallway, and the time I have spent seeing the looks in other people's eyes that make me think "are you falling in love with this painting too?"

When I leave galleries – assuming I am not being asked to leave by an announcement system because it is closing time – I like to meander. I intend to walk faster because I have the intent to leave – to continue on with my day, to get a coffee, to bask in the stream of life that is the busy plaza outside from which I can see Nature and humanity and architecture and hope – but inevitably something catches my eye: a painting I haven't seen in a while, a rearranged wall, a new addition to a display. I revel in those moments.

Turner's painting of Norham Castle, which I see on the way out of the National Gallery of Scotland, is transfixing. I always want to look at the painting; to savour every moment of its display. I have written about Turner's painting of Norham Castle before, but when I close my eyes it continues to be the painting I see.

I can close my eyes and see the ink of Rembrandt and the whit of Magritte and the passion of Picasso, but, in this moment, I see Turner. Maybe it is because I have seen the painting recently that it stands out so much. Whatever the reason, I sit, now, under the blanket of late evening that will soon become near-midnight and then a new day, with the impression of Turner's yellow sunrise in my mind – of the blurriness in the painting, and how it makes me want to fill in the details while also realising it is ambiguity that makes the work so beautiful.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

I close my eyes and think of a piece of music. I hear Taylor Swift's "Our Song" and "Call it What You Want," mashed up. I think of the bridge, of how much I love to sing the words passionately as I play the song on my guitar. I hear a blend of more songs on the periphery: like when I closed my eyes to think of art, many memories made their way to the forefront of my mind. I see the time spent in my chair where I write words and play music, sitting on the edge with my guitar perched on one leg, one hand on the fretboard, and the other holding a grey plectrum, ready to play. I feel ready, and excited, and full of the potential that comes with making music.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

I sit in wonder at the possibility that another person might read these words at morning or midnight, with a cup of coffee by their sides or a glass of water, with memories of daydreams or the hope of dreams near in their minds. Dear reader, this is you. What do you hear, or see – now, or when you think of art, or architecture, or music? Does a moment stand out, where you were transfixed, or left thinking, or laughed out loud because your experience was made not only by a particular artwork but by the fact you spent that day with friends who made you smile? How do you feel? Does your world feel bigger, different?

Back To Me

You can find more of James' writing at his site, and my half of the swap at I Thought It Was A Tire.

If you've an answer to James' closing question, I'd love to hear it.