Remember me? No? I’m Back!

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Things move quickly in the world of blog, and I suspect it’s going to take me a while to get back up to speed (although I’m not even sure what I mean by ‘up to speed’, I’ll figure it out later). Many moons have passed since I last posted (actually 3) and I’ve missed hanging out here, so I’ll be trekking WordPress over the next few weeks to find out what you’ve all been up to.

Me, I’ve been up to stuff also. In a fit of frustration at my job, I quit. It was the worst time of year for a gardener to leave a job, but after only a week of frantic wailing at my own recklessness, I got re-employed. I need to point out that the speedy turnaround was nothing to do with the state of our economy, and everything to do with the lack of people who want to be gardeners. Anyway, my new job is great, but exhausting, and in a different field to the one I’ve specialised in for the last three years, so it’s been a struggle.

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Hibiscus – taken on my last day in my old job

I’ve had to learn how to drive a van very quickly because nobody at my new job knew I’d not really driven one before, plus remember how to start a hedgecutter.

More importantly, I’ve been visited by a fox

 

and a cat,

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sadly the two aren’t friends yet.

Anyway, waffle over, stories and commentary on the world will start again soon. I hope you come back soon, and have a beautiful day.

The Castle

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The castle was all he had known. Confined by a wicked uncle to stay in the tower, everyday he looked down on the enchanted forest and saw only thorns. Then one day he heard a loud rustling and swearing, looking out he saw a sword flashing and slashing its way through the thicket. Although he didn’t know it yet, his princess had come and soon he would be free.

Inside the House of Dreams: an adventure

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Yesterday I explored the House of Dreams, the museum/home/art installation of artist Stephen Wright. A tangled delight of junk, jumble, thoughts and images hiding behind a blue gate in Dulwich, London. The museum is only open a few days a year and photos can only be taken of the front garden, so what you see here is a fragment. I think that’s for the best though, photos could never give you the experience: the chance to explore, touch and be surrounded by the contents of the house.

A colourful jungle, absolutely crammed full of ephemera and words, the house contains powerful messages about love and loss, but also about acceptance of the self. Stephen has woven his thoughts and experiences into a visual adventure that others can share, telling a tale of love, grief and defiance.

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Part of what makes this house special is that the artist and his partner, Michael, both spend time talking to visitors one to one. I think I was my usual nosy, odd self and asked lots of questions, but both were patient and I learned first hand about how the house came into being and a little of what it means. I was also able to ask about why it was called the House of Dreams. For Stephen and his previous partner Donald the name was arrived at organically. It grew, like the house did, out of a random idea coming to life. For me, the name has real significance, tied into my understanding of what dreams are.

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When I had the brain injury (gone on about here) I had many dreams, and in a few ways they were like this house: vivid, crowded and stayed lodged in my thoughts throughout the day. I decided then that dreams are the brain’s way of frantically sorting through information in order to make sense of it and learn from it. From tiny irrelevant details of a TV show to complex emotions, the unconscious brain spends the quiet time at night filing and connecting at random each nugget of your life, testing one against another until each is finally slotted into place. My dreams were my brain’s way of sorting through my own experience of death and illness. This house seems like Stephen’s more external way of doing the same, it enabled him to process intense grief (he lost his partner and both parents in a very short space of time). It uses the same random juxtaposition of dreams: putting a sculpture showing his feelings about his father’s death next to a collection of brightly coloured bleach bottles; hair curlers next to diary entries. Walking through the house was a little like walking through someone else’s dreams.

One of the most powerful messages I got from the house was to be fearless with who you are. To boldly be who no one can else can be. There is  a lot of pressure to hide our oddities, and as someone who can weird people out quite easily, I tend to tuck the messy edges of my personality out of sight. That’s an easier way to interact in society, but art is not about behaving and being normal; art should be the explosion of the self, the unfeterred release of who we are. Mostly I write fiction and I’m always adamant that I don’t write about me in my stories; but it’s important also that I don’t distance myself from what I write, that I don’t sketch half-hearted thoughts, but instead throw myself into the eye of the storm. That is certainly the inspiration I’ll take from this house.

More info, videos and pictures here. If you ever have the chance to visit the house on one of the open days then you really should. We live in mass produced, largely blank and repetitive world, the chance to see something unique and as inspiring as this is well worth the effort.

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