Shadows

I am interested in shadows because they are the presence of something absent, which is light. I have in my time taken some good pictures of shadows. I can’t find them right now, but they exist digitally backed-up in an archive I’ll never dig through, probably with a filename composed of a string of numbers.

The other thing about shadows is that they represent the present. (I’m talking about time this time, not light.) The reason I’ve got lots of photos of shadows (somewhere) is because I couldn’t capture them any way else. A shadow doesn’t hang about you have to either capture it, or let it go. There’s the third option of appreciating it, but then you try telling someone about a good shadow. It’s a bit like describing cloud formations to someone who wasn’t there – it looked like an elephant or the boot of Italy; its not that interesting or impressive without the morphed cloud.

This reminded me of cognitive evolution and the origins of art. When did humans start producing art? Great question – no definitive answer. Something like 300-100,000 years ago. There was this all-encompassing theory that academics called the Palaeolithic Cognitive Revolution, which occurred at this time; when homo sapiens developed tool-making techniques, started burying their dead, evolved speech and began making art.

One of the questions that jumped out at me was what on earth possesses a being to make a living breathing thing you can see into a two-dimensional image?

It’s true when I see a dog, I love them and would play with them for hours, but I would never have thought to draw one. Why would I? I can’t draw shit and I’d much rather make the most of my time with a dog. However, there are some people in society who have talent and may be able to draw the dog pretty well. Even if you had the talent, what would it really take to make that leap of inspiration: to see the dog then draw the dog… it had to happen for the first time somewhere, but how?

Another thing learnt from my archaeology and anthropology degree was that most things that survive in the archaeological record are the rarest things. Isn’t that ironic? The majority of stuff made or used by humans is lost over time because it’s either rubbish i.e. detritus (like our takeaway containers), or not important enough to keep (like the stuff in our shed.) Also, they’ve got to last! You can try and hold on to your favourite blanket, but that’ll be gone in 300 years because it’s a dirty piece of fabric. So basically, barley anything survives from 300,000 years ago.

Can you imagine? No, because it’s too darn long ago. Could a rock survive that long, maybe, if it wasn’t being bashed against another rock for 1,000 years and turned into sand. It’s kind of stupid thinking about stuff that far back, but people do and Good on ‘em! What great guys and if you want to do some extra reading go for it here and here. (Although I’ve lost the reference to whatever I’m about to say, so you can take it or leave it.)

We have some cave paintings that survive from that far back, but they were painted on the inside of deep cave systems and that’s why they’re still intact. There must have been other art made by probably not-so-good artists drawn on the outer side of rocks and carved into tree trunks. All washed away or decomposed. Like artists today who make sketches to practise, there would have been the Palaeolithic equivalent of sketching going on on organic materials.

Maybe some being saw a shadow on the sand and quickly sketched around it

TA-DA-

Could it be the first ever 2-D representation of something in the world?

Capturing a moment to record it; to possess it; when the figure who’s shadow it was moved away, was that the leap in human cognition which made it possible to create art?

Bedz on the Rye

‘It’s no time to be making plans for a holiday Ron. You should’ve done that years ago.’ Says Antoine, who is perched on a solid pine bedframe. Ron continues to stare out of the window. ‘Anyways, not at your age, there’s this virus making its rounds like the grim reaper.’

‘Don’t be so gloomy Antoine, let an old man dream.’ Ron turns around with both hands in his pockets sticking out like paws. He has small blue peepers studded in his round, pink head and wears a beige coloured sweatshirt over cream trousers. Ron is slightly blurred at the edges, but when he puts on his reading glasses to go over the accounts, he gains a certain edge like a betting clerk.

Ron runs a shop called Bedz on the Rye and he has done so for the last twenty-seven years. He bought it off his uncle when he became ill, likely asbestos - things were different then. The market was looking up, there were loads of new families moving into the area with money to splash, everyone needed a bed. Waterbeds came into fashion for a little while, nearly did his back in carrying one into the store with Larry. After that they always drained them before moving. Nowadays everyone’s about memory-foam and low bed frames, although tighter with their budget. He doesn’t make enough business these days. Ron has to keep the shop open all hours in case somebody comes in to buy; ‘Can’t miss an opportunity and can’t compete with them online retailers.’ His beds are middle-of-the-range, affordable, no frills and he’s got Larry with the van if you want it delivered to your door.

The only regular customer he gets is Antoine who works for an old people’s home. Elderly care worker is what you call them these days, and Antoine looked after his old mum before she went, so he’s a good lad, still a bit young but who isn’t when you’re over sixty. Still no plans to retire – ‘I couldn’t afford it!’ but still with an itch to get out there, to see the world. Every day he stands at the shop window looking out, watching the street, waiting for someone to come in. Ron wonders how much longer this sort of thing can go on. Every time he takes stock of his beds and mattresses, he is reminded that he hasn’t sold enough for this quarter. At least he owns the leasehold he muses, though that must be running low too, can’t quite remember or find the energy to locate the deeds.

He never married - didn’t want to - not really. There was this one lady friend he made called Veronica. Oh, she was lovely. She had this shop a few stores down selling vintage clothing and furs, she was actually older than Ron by several years, but he daren’t ask by how much, a woman must be allowed to keep her secrets. He’d buy her coffees and croissants and take them a few doors down in the mornings, chatting while she got the place ready. Veronica had these trunk suitcases that looked like they belonged in the back of a Fiat 500 and picnic hampers, which she would open up all over the shop and delicately toss mountains of shawls and silk scarves into them, pulling out little wisps, enticing customers to reach out and buy one. Those mornings were bliss. They would talk about politics and hit records, Veronica spoke about wanting to move away and start all over again; Ron felt trepidation and excitement at the possibilities that could materialise out of thin air. It was the last time he felt young.

Drizzle started falling and it got chilly standing by the door, Ron trod lightly into his back-office, switching on the overhead heater that made a faint hum. In moments like these he wished a customer would come in to make him not dwell. She did as she set out to do. It was the summer of 2005 when Veronica closed her shop forever, selling the business to a yuppie couple who transformed it into a yoga studio. She came by to sit on one of the many bright beds for sale that day and dazzled Ron as she spoke with certainty about where she was off to and what she was going to do.

‘I’ll swim in the most beautiful crystal-clear lake in the summers and be able to buy and sell as many silks as I like.’

‘You can speak Italian can you?’

‘Capisco benissimo!’ Ron raised his eyebrows impressed and besotted. ‘You must come and visit me. Will you? Yes promise.’

What would happen if he turned over the “Open” sign to say “Closed” for a week? The shop door swings open and Antoine steps in wearing a drenched raincoat with the hood pulled over his hair, holding a blue plastic bag.

‘Do you mind it’s too rainy to walk back just yet.’

‘You know something Antoine? I’m going on holiday.’

‘Oh yes, when?’

‘Right now.’ Ron looked pleased with himself and had some colour in his cheeks for once.

‘Where to?’ Rummaging in his shopping bag.

Already Ron had put on his jacket and folded his reading glasses into their case for travel, ‘To Lake Como in Italy.’

Antoine stops and looks at him like he’s loopy, ‘You can’t you know it’s been quarantined.’

‘I don’t care about that I’m going.’ And with that, Ron gave Antoine his umbrella and switched off all the electrics in his shop and swung the sign round to say “Closed”.