Yes, that would be me. I am not a minimalist, by any means, but anything that I have around me is there for a reason. It could be a souvenir from a place I have visited or something that once belonged to a person that I cherish. They may seem like silly things, kitschy even, but they speak to me in that language that only the heart understands. Which is why I have such a hard time letting go. In my little nook I am surrounded by memories, fleeting moments, long snatched away by time, that bring an unexpected smile to my face.
Mine is a motley collection, without rhyme or reason; the only thing that the different pieces have in common is their vibrant colours and their unexpected diversity. They sit patiently on my shelf, waiting to be picked up again; waiting to take me back to a special place or a special time. Take the clown for example, all he has to do is perform one of his silly summersaults and I will be back beneath the brooding Gothic spires of the church of Our Lady of Tyn in the heart of Prague.
The peachy-coloured cat was from a little art boutique in Vienna. My (now empty) tin of Maxim’s chocolates came all the way from Paris and now holds little knick-knacks. The little red phone box takes me back to the crowded streets of London.
From the American south-west (Moab, Utah to be more precise) a little clay flute that produces some eerily beautiful sounds when you blow into it.
And interspersed amongst them, photos. Photos of a boy who’s growing up too fast; of a much younger me; of summer vacations and unforgettable road-trips. More memories. More moments. And I collect them all.