Inspiration always seems to hit at the most awkward of times...such as on a lone winter night's walk home from town...where the passing traffic, the distant rush of trains and the swift sway of tree branches invites the mind to drift, memories to flood and reflection to flourish. And, of course, where paper and pen are absent...
Another Friday night spent alone...not out of lack of trying to find enthusiasts to join me in an evening of vernissages and emerging art creations throughout the city. I can't complain as I did bump into one or two people I knew... but you know, the kind of situation where you know them through someone else so you don't quite feel justified to call them 'your friend' and they hardly consider asking you to join them for a drink... after all, you're 'so-and-so's' friend, not theirs. Anyhow... venturing in my own company in and out of galleries and artistic spaces, I realised the following:
I have friends in New York, Los Angeles, Buenos Aires, Canada, London, Newscastle, Wales and Paris. All very glamorous indeed... But is it really? As while I have friends in these fabulous locations, how many do I have here? I remain with few to none at home... or the place I identify as home.
The glamour of travelling and living abroad soon wears when you suddenly realise that it is quite a solitary thing. This thought reminded me of what a guest artist mentioned in a class of mine; she was talking about the concept of mobility; always moving. And while few agreed – I really related to her comment that the excitement of travel and move into the unknown soon diffuses into a certain sentiment of solitude. She was discussing how travel is in fact a very solitary experience, and the glamour and ideology of it can soon become lonesome. After all, you're always leaving someone, somewhere, something behind... and some things are irreplacable.
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