I’m not sure why I started writing again.
Not that I feel it necessary to glorify my trivial life in books nor blogs, despite having written much for both mediums in recent years…
At this time, now, I know it to be so that one accumulates value from that which I ‘ve seen and experienced and it is these things, a scrapbook of sorts, that charts some navigable destiny through my various and varied interests and the ebb and flow of my once prodigious output, that I come back to from time to time.
These are words in a language that came none to easy. My formative years were uttered, gestured and heard in German. I was never taught to read nor write in German, but once I had English at my disposal, with the help of my sister, Annette, and the many books my father brought home for me, I read with determination stories of far away worlds, ancient and future civilisations, stretching my imagination for beyond the horizon I would climb to see from the top of the pear tree in our Guildford backyard.
On returning from a short trip to Barcelona I had found myself watching, purely by chance, the Neasa Hardiman and Dearbhla Walsh documentary, Imagining Ulysses. Not only had I for the first time understood James Joyce’s revolutionary novel, fatalistically titled, Ulysses, I had a glimpse into Joyce’s sense of purpose, in that he knew exactly what he was required to do and devoted himself entirely and appropriately to the task… the job of bringing to the future a shockingly daring fusion of language, sound and image, that would be a precise and unflinching shift in cultural consciousness unlike no other.
It is no mystery that I am attracted to both the complexities and minimalistic aesthetics explored in many art forms. From architecture to photography, from painting to sculpture, from jewellery to sound, from music to film, I travel in search of that which men and women have toiled over, their efforts to bring to us new ways in which to understand ourselves and the multiple worlds – from spirit to flesh – we inhabit.