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Objects

Material objects, have always been a fascination of mine.
Not only the object itself, but the pathway it takes in becoming a piece of sentiment; a permanent reminder of something, or someone.
The object exists. We have it in our lives, and to us personally it has more than its intended function. We have created a world around it, where that intended use becomes something more. It weaves into our emotions, resides in dark niches within us, reminding us of our existence, and it’s existence, by its mere presence.
Allow me to offer a couple of examples.
Firstly, a book of poetry gifted to me by a friend a few years ago, purchased at an auction of Marilyn Monroes personal items. My friend could have chosen one of many hundreds of items, but he chose that one, a small collection of prose that had once sat on the bookshelves of one of the most famous people on the planet.
Now, that book is not much to look at, and if you saw it in a second hand sellers you’d surely pass it by. It has a musty aroma indicative of aged pages, and the spine is detaching from its cover, but once one opens it up it takes on new life, Marilyn’s handwritten annotations defibrillate it into something else entirely, and within moments one is transported to Ms Monroes home, and into her gentle hands, and as she places those pencil marks upon its narrow margins, highlighting lines she wishes to recall at a later date I can, yes, I actually can hear the soft heave of her bosom and sense the soft aroma of Chanel.
The second example is Aloysius, a small bear. Aloysius, to most people would appear to be a most sorry looking thing- tired and threadbare, lacking redeeming qualities. One could be excused for discarding him into a bin. However, and despite his obvious shortfalls, Aloysius, like all our sentimental material objects, has a back story. Some of you may remember me writing about him in the past.
For many years, Aloysius belonged to my close friend, Charlotte. I’d frequently see him propped up on Charlottes bed, nestled between two pillows, an omnipresent part of her life. In August 2016, Charlotte, for reasons I shall not dwell upon here, climbed into a freshly drawn bath of warm scented water, Aloysius in her arms, and took her life at the age of 32. A couple of weeks later, and that sorry looking bear was given to me, still smelling of Lush bath bombs, and he remains with me today. I find myself hoping that Aloysius has no capacity for memory, whilst fearing he does, for if he does the world behind those yellow ochre glass eyes would not be a pleasant one.
Material objects. We all have some, whatever stories they remind us of. Of course, one day in the future they will either be gone or in the possession of someone oblivious to the narrative that currently resides inside us, and every other person whose life they have tinkered with. One day we too must let them go on their journey, wherever that may be.
And, that is just how it should be.

By ianbourneart

I draw. I write. I do stuff.

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