I have always believed that it is oral histories that holds stories of exquisite potency. Yesterday I was once again a privileged participant to a situation that took my breath away; and where my imagination was held captive in that moment of sharing.
The simplicity with which this young woman explained her critique about her colleagues painting was through a quiet and brief anecdote from her own childhood. The nakedness of the narration via it's poetic deliverance, brought instant tears to my eyes. Not because of any extreme tragedy that the story held, but because the power of her personal experience was translated so effectively to embrace our understanding of the wider worlds of meaning.
It is these chanced upon and often accidental interludes that embroider my imagination and give me other spaces to explore inside my head; and so when I sit within my studio, I am visited by these voices that breath more life into who I am and what I know.
It is also the innocence of learning that can reveal insights of wisdom in ways one least expects to find.
I love it when I see my own blindness, or catch the glimmer of a rainbow in the darkness of my own head.
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