Fragments

Today I returned to Tyneham for the first time since the private view.  I didn't know what to expect or what I'd find.  When I approached the village I could still see George's Smock hanging in Gardeners Cottage so that came as a relief.  But the piece In Flowerless Hours is no more.  I suppose it is quite poignant that these fragile flowers, coated in porcelain, wouldn't last forever.  They were wet and trodden on, their petals crushed into the ground, with one lone flower holding it's shape, I picked it and put in my bag.  I decided to take this display down, the ink on the sign had bled so no longer described the work.  Somehow this added to the significance of change and decay.  So, far from being sad I knew that displaying my work in an outdoor isolated place, some would not survive.

The Epistle is another piece that has changed since Saturday.  The envelope that was once part of the work lies in the mud on the floor of the Post Office.  This change is not bad.  It had a significant affect on my feelings seeing it lying there.  I picked it up and put it back in the letterbox along with the wax and fabric letter which had also deteriorated.  The wording of the letter can no longer be read, ink combining with the dye.  The wax has worn away where countless visitors have touched it and again the notion of this doesn't fill me with sadness.  It looks as though at some point the letter had become detached completely and someone has tied it back up, taking care over it, understanding what it means.

Toil

Touched and crumbling, the pieces will now go back to the Earth from where they first came.

The remaining pieces were intact just a little wet, by Monday things may have changed further.  It's out of my hands and I'll just have to wait and see.  This poem I think is quite fitting.....

Informational Decay

I heard an echo in a hollow place.

No sound of blowing wind or drifting sand,

some ancient voice was this, a captive trace

of gone-by speech, of argument, demand,

of plea or question, comfort or command.

Long years this message had remained unheard

in empty halls, in untenanted lands,

a letter lost, a homeless, wandering word.

I could not judge it solemn or absurd,

the language, one I'd never learned to speak.

Was it then call of beast or cry of bird

from whiskered mouth, or brightly colored beak?

No. No, this was human speech, now lost.

A warning wasted, at an unknown cost.

Tiel Aisha Ansari