“An artist is an ordinary person who can take ordinary things and make them special.” I came across this quote today.
Last Christmas my daughter bought several of her presents through ‘Not on Amazon’. We were all trying to buck the ubiquitousness of the big A. One gift was a bottle of Gangplank Cordials’ ginger and lime variety, (made in small batches by foraging folk who live on a narrowboat). Delicious, but all gone.
I caught a few minutes of Radio 4’s ‘Open Book’ this afternoon, (between stocking up with donkey and cat food and walking Jenny). The talk was about a children’s book – ‘Frederick‘ by Leo Lionni – about a non-teamplayer field mouse. Frederick refuses to join the other small rodents in stockpiling wheat, corn, nuts and straw for the winter. He spends his summer daydreaming, idling about, apparently not contributing to the greater good of the mouse community.
Frederick defends his apparent inactivity – saying that he, instead, is garnering the suns’ rays, the colours of flowers and plants… and words. His rationale? What he’s gathering will sustain the mice through the cold, drab and long winter days. And of course, that’s what happens.
On my return I downloaded the book – a deceptively simple apologia for non-material values, and for the importance of spiritual and cultural nourishment. Eric Carle, (yes the caterpillar chap), wrote that Frederick ‘is a poet from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail’ demonstrating ‘that a seemingly purposeless life is far from that.’
A friend told me that she needs a project now – painting or sewing or knitting. She needs to be creating something. The lockdown poetry anthology I have a poem in will be published this Spring. Writing poetry has ebbed and flowed in recent years, more ebbing than flowing if I’m honest. But a switch has been turned. Writing is once more an absolute necessity for me.