Dreamer

This image is from a little medieval church in a tiny village somewhere in the Swiss Alps. I sat there last Easter and pondered hope in the face of everything against it, as demonstrated by the big heart of Joseph of Arimathea. He carried the bloody corpse of Jesus in his arms and tended to it, because he believed death was not the final word. This is what I was thinking about when I found a big, red felt heart on the seat in front of me, and these pew-ends seemed to me to be the shape of encouraging angels, so I photographed them to remember being so moved by a story of hope in the face of death.

For a person blessed with imagination and thought, the physical world around you is only a starting point. There are–metaphysically–things not yet existing which will indeed come to pass. How do I know? Because this is what we persistently translate into music, brushstrokes, sculptural form and lyrical adventure, and keep doing because it keeps unlocking things for people. This is how we take a scribble of thought and sweep it into a beautifully crafted line with form and expression, assembled into a compelling vision.

Some questions:

Why are we compelled by art and music?
Because the thoughts and visions they contain can resonate with our most inexplicable longings and articulate hope.

Why are we not–even after everything–immune to hoping?
The answers to our hope (mine at least) often interrupt my straining at the leash by arriving from a totally alien direction with a gust of new, unbelievable life. This has taken me quite by surprise a number of times and captivates me into hope proper, believing not only that anything could happen, but occasionally does.

If hope is your greatest strength, is it also your greatest weakness?
Say, for example, you spied a handsome stranger one day as you stood by a tea urn backstage somewhere, and you sensed he spied you, and then as quickly and without a word passing, he disappears because he has a life to live that bears no relation to the fantasy you have suddenly created. Hope says he's not married, or doesn't prefer boys, and that its possible he could be your prince, and proceeds to colour in the pictures for you. Irresistably irrational, you are helpless in Hope's arms.

Hmm, angels on my pew...

...a voyage into the fairytale wilderness it is then with nothing but a pencil box for company.


{Today's Soundtrack: Bethany Dillon - The Acoustic Sessions}