I’ve happily fallen prey to nostalgia this week.
Whilst lately we seldom seem able to discuss this peculiar quality without derision, I see very little wrong with occasionally allowing ourselves be warmed with wistful affection for the past.
I suppose I mean this more in reference to our own lives than in the grand terms of history, where nostalgia admittedly presents problems.
But for my modest story, I don’t think we need be too concerned.
It goes like this…
I love the patterns of William Morris. Knowing this, my friend Lola this week gifted me a cushion bearing the same print as the little purse she gave me for my birthday last year.
Ever the sentimentalist, I hugged it the second I opened it. It has since gained pride of place amongst the inordinate number of pillows on my bed. It is nestled in the small of my back as we speak.
I couldn’t really tell you why I admire Morris’ handiwork. I know very little about art, as this tale will reveal, but I suppose the feelings these particular prints evoke in me are the reason art continues to possess both power and prestige.
Put simply, these patterns remind me of a very specific moment in my childhood.
I was in my Year 2 Art Class. We were given the choice of little print outs of a section of artwork, with the task being to continue to sketch the work, replicating it as closely as we could.
As I understand it now, this isn’t exactly capturing the essence of ‘art’.
Nevertheless, it was my kind of creativity; one with clear parameters.
And unwittingly, I’d begun an affair that will likely last a lifetime.
I’m almost certain the pattern I selected was one by the very same William Morris, or at the very least was something so akin to it I can still remember what it looked like in my mind’s eye to this day.
Inevitably, this got me thinking about how much of who we are and what we admire stays with us from childhood.
In turn, I wonder how much you forget too?
People would probably say the tender souls are rich in recollections, but I’m unsure.
It feels too simple, too easy to reduce every existence and every accompanying thought, every accompanying memory, down to being the dominion of one type of person or another.
Alas I have yet to resolve this conflict.
In the meantime, consider it my contribution to the limitless nature-nurture debate.
Coincidence is an equally tricky matter. Incidentally, this too gets problematised to within an inch of its life.
I confess I find it hard to ignore the lingering question of whether something is fate or whether you simply care about something enough to notice it.
Nevertheless, I have an uncompromising fondness for fortuity.
William Morris has followed me for most of my life, in the way that those things do, materialising in the few places where algorithms remain unaccountable.
Long may our serendipitous meetings continue.
Modernish 