These were thoughts I made note of three years ago – but they feel entirely timely given current discussions around the ‘erasure’ of history. It’s not about the monuments. it’s about the stories they tell – and don’t tell – the myths that grow up around them, and the associated histories that the myths sometimes de-story (and sometimes don’t, despite determined efforts to do so).
A treasury of carefully horded ambition and inspiration. A fragile accumulation of flimsy paper, so thin as to need handling with a held back breath. Soft blue or yellow lines impressed on tissue, meant to be transferred with the gentle application of heat. Images of flowers and swirls of design, intended for interpretation – held and preserved for decades. All tucked away in paper shells, layered up and stored as ideas and opportunities – most unrealised, but some revealed in equally fragile card, pierced with pins and dusted with pounce or chalk.
Spray painted white.
A shimmer laid with a casual hand
Over the outline of the land.
There, the scattered icing lies
Across the fields,
Bright with reflected skies.
Cloaking the webs that drape and hang
Early decorations spun, from leaf to land.
The morning crisp
With decorative air,