Barb (bakapo) and I have been riffing back and forth every so often, playing off of each other's art. Recently I told her her art is a trove of 'treasure chests'; and she posted an image that grew out of that. The image is here. Take a look at it! My piece (below) goes pretty wild with her beautiful image, but it's closer to Barb than one thinks. Read on... I hope this reads ok---it's always a challenge to write tales about art! (I call it a "photo" here---but that's just playing...It's a mixed media piece...) Just an effort to plumb the mysteries of our creativity, for one of our truly magical dancers... I've been in pain from work (and age): So I'm behind in your galleries! I'll catch up this week, I promise. I hope you're all well, and thanks for your visits and your support! They mean the world to me. I'll be in your galleries soon...have a fine rest of the week, mark ------------------ ...it was one of those rooms that hadn't been opened in ages: dark, suffocating, like a tomb...where, after turning on the light, you got hit with a wave of musty, stinging air, and a powerful sense of enclosure as if the walls were closing in on you and the air was clinging to you like a tarp... But it invited you: It drew you in with exquisite sweetness, the kind of sweet and pungent fragrance that gathers from aged, yellowed books and mildewed wood, and piles and piles of keepsakes strewn over rickety wooden floors and threadbare rugs---all of which radiate the intimate sense that this place was once precious and rare. Did it 'call' you? Absolutely! It was magic: It had the smell of one's great-grandparents' attic; of people and their belongings both passed and priceless; of a remote history that, for all its unreachability, was strikingly dear; and it was all packed so densely, it was nigh impossible to take another step: There wasn't a patch of floor that wasn't covered; and, as you gazed across this room, you had the sudden feeling that there were treasures here, buried in these remnants, remembrances and hills of memorabilia...all radiating a sense of the tenderest and most exquisite privacy. I took a deep breath, when---crash! I tripped over a mound of very old dolls, pillowy stuffed bears, and brittle, yellowed letters tied with twine so fragile that a mere touch caused it to disintegrate...In fact, I tried opening one of the letters, but it also turned to powder: So I stood there, afraid to take another step. You'd have thought there were land mines from the way I froze in my path... Then, cuh-rush! I stepped on a stuffed giraffe! "I'm sorry!" I said---as if it could hear me---then I realized it was a stuffed animal: It couldn't hear me. But then I walked into a cloud of leather scents---old leather, with that stinging, ornery scent that all leather acquires after it's given up the ghost and left a brittle cracked shell in its place: It was the trim around a treasure chest---a real treasure chest---radiating the decayed yet warming fragrance that old leather so often yields. * * * Having decided to stay---not easy considering the place seemed crawling with spirits---I climbed over several stuffed creatures, knelt by the chest, and began pulling creatures out of the chest one by one, stopping to marvel at the spectacular character of each creature...yet the more creatures I pulled out, the more creatures appeared underneath: There was no bottom to this chest: It was as if there were a fountain beneath it that kept spewing up more and more creatures, so that, no matter what I removed, there would always be more to come...my god... And those beings, those pillowy, stuffed beings: They covered the floor, were crammed against walls, plastered against shelves and stuffed wherever they'd fit...and, upon close inspection, you saw that someone used these animals to plug holes in the walls (!): In fact, some of the holes were stuffed with cloth mice: a kind of "if ya can't beat 'm, join 'm" attitude (Ie, stop real mice with cloth mice---clever---there were even pieces of cloth cheeses near the mice: Apparently someone had a sense of humor here; and the fabric cheeses had holes in them too ((swiss)). A little stuffed-animal pun...) But most inexplicable: There were flowers here---fresh flowers (see the photo: they're next to the cat): Their petals were still silken and downy, their perfume as fresh as if they'd bloomed an hour ago; and I wondered, how did they ever get here? No one had been here for ages! And, more stunning: There was a cat in here---a real, living cat, padding across the remnants oh-so cat-like and slow. "Do you know where we are?" I asked the cat. It stared at me and meowed. I kept searching... And I wondered, while digging my way through a pile of stuffed monkeys: Was this really a room? Maybe I'd walked into someone's imagination---which made more sense: Maybe I was walking in one of the many chambers and mansions of someone's creative soul...so if I left this room, I'd enter another creative soul, and another, and another...I thought of Hamlet's line, "there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy..." I sat, and picked up an old stuffed doll: Her head fell backwards and almost fell off! "Nooooo," I rasped, panicked that I'd killed her: "Come back!" I said, trying desperately to 'right' her head. I reared back and muttered: "Are these things really alive?' I was panicked: 'Get a grip!' I barked. But the sight of that doll with its head dangling over like it were gasping for its final breath, undid me...so I quickly laid it on top of a stuffed dog, to be sure the doll's head stayed level; and then collapsed against the chest with a deep sigh. It all sounds very strange, but this place was imbued...everything seemed to be waking from a deep slumber... But it got worse: If you ran your fingers through the furrows of these creatures, children's voices came out of them in droves: I stroked furrow after furrow (feeling a little perverted, because I didn't want these dolls to think I had a fetish), and soon a shimmering chorus filled the cosmos: The heavenly voices of children were radiating off the walls as if through a vast cathedral. I basked in this for a while while the voices traveled well beyond the image and this piece... But then there were buttons---don't look for them in the image, I found them buried under a ton of stuffed chess sets: There were so, so many buttons...I'd never seen so many buttons in my life: Iridescent buttons, bone-hewn buttons, brass buttons---in various states of tarnish and carving---and jeweled buttons---with real jewels---not to mention a whole slew of emblem buttons (with emblems from all over the globe). But also, buttons-for-eyes, and buttons-for-mouths, and look: Of the numerous stuffed bears who had buttons-for-eyes, at least half their buttons were missing---making them 'one-eyed' bears (bear pirates!), or like a teddy bear's version of old-age blindness---as if this were how age hit feeble stuffed bears...And when you looked at those missing eyes, you swore that the bears were winking at you: I mean, come here, see for yourself: They winked. I was losing it, I admit it: But it was real. I threw down the bears, and headed for the next pile. But before I got there, I found a rarity: a beautiful child-sized violin---with a diary next to it that stated: "The young girl who played this violin was breathtakingly accomplished---but she died at age 8 from the grippe" (an old word for the flu); "yay, so bereft and heart-sundered was the violin, it passed the nights singing heart-rending melodies that could be heard across the countryside, in mourning for its beloved master..." (And indeed, there were accounts of these melodies, from scores of different sources.) So I picked it up and stroked it---It was gorgeous, though scratched and robbed of its once cherry-red bloom---and I rubbed it; and it sang a plethora of centuries' old laments, including several from the Bach Passions and many more from sources across Europe...and when I muffled the strings at last, they continued their laments inside my hands, like a child: very touching... "This place is magic," I whispered. And, with that: A woman appeared! I froze! Maybe she's was the girl who owned the violin---only grown-up! I mean, she was much older, taller, more mature: Maybe she was that girl in the afterlife. In any case, she was tall, in a white gown, and with stunning red hair (see the photo); and she carried a lantern. When I looked closely, there was nothing burning in her lantern: just a flame (!). "Who are you," I said. She paid me no mind: She was searching for something on the floor, and oblivious to my presence... "Please," I repeated: "Who are you? Are you that young girl who died so young?" She kept staring at the floor... Determined to know who she was, i picked up the violin and handed it to her: She grabbed the violin and clutched it to her breast, staring at me with terrible hurt in her eyes. "What---I didn't take it," I said: "I just found it! I meant no offense!" And, with tears in her eyes, she yanked open the door, gave me one more anguished look, and ran out. Slam! She slammed the door so hard, a slew of stuffed creatures tumbled out of their piles and yelled out, "hey!" (You learn quickly, when going through someone else's realms, that trespass is an excruciating thing. I whispered "I'm sorry" through the door; but she ignored me.) I peeked through the keyhole; when suddenly: Music! Violin music! She started playing in that dank musty hall, and, my god: She was a master! You could tell immediately if you'd studied classical music: that caressing neck-clasp of the violin, grasping it fiercely to her her chest; how she laid her hand so articulately on the finger board---bones and joints so eloquently poised, a hand that had obviously trained for years to achieve such grace and beautiful angles (what we used to call 'the poetry of the fingers')...and how she moved her fingers, that she reached the highest notes with absolute ease: notes so difficult, most people couldn't produce them without turning their violins into shrieking cats. And her bowing---my god: It was ballet, with the loving sweep of someone who understood that the bow was the violin's precious conjurer, it 'kissed' the music out of the violin......and her tone was woven out of silk or pure air...It takes years to achieve such perfection, yet she'd mastered it by age 8! She played excerpts from Bach, Mozart and others...and more of those piercing laments. The diary said her violin was a cheap 'throwaway'---they found it on the street. So that girl took a scratchy old fiddle and coaxed the universe out of it; and here she was, a mature young woman: They had to be the same person. How else could she play like this? She had to be the little girl... When she stopped, I was like a dog who, after snarfing down several treats, is told "no more!" I leapt up, I couldn't contain myself, I wanted to yank open the door and shout: "Don't stop! More! More Bach! More laments! More, more: Please!" She opened to the door and stared at me once more: I'd trespassed her world: I said, "I'm sorry." And she nodded, then left. Jesus. I raced to the door and shouted: "No! Just one more question: Are you the girl? You play exquisitely! Who are you? Tell me who you are, please!" She looked at me, and mouthed something. It was inaudible. "Please---again: Please," I said. She mouthed again---I still couldn't hear! When I said 'what' a third time, she mouthed: "You only get two of these"; and she left. "Wait!" I shouted. I ran after: "Is this some kind of game? 'Two chances'? What does that mean?" (Again, quoting Hamlet: "Oh day and night, but this is wondrous strange...") So I stood there, turning circles because I didn't know what to do. Finally, I went back inside where many of the animals were now arm in arm, dancing across the floor, shouting in joy. Some of them held up a pumpkin (a fresh pumpkin---look at the photo!). It was magical. "Don't let her upset you," said several stuffed bears: "She had a very sad life, and she comes here every night, looking for a link." "What link?" I asked. "You gave it to her," they said. And they continued dancing.... And---while the dance was now ecstatic---I leaned over and pulled out some books: My god: There were atlases from 1500; medical books from 1600; medieval alphabet-books, and bestiaries (medieval collections of fantastic creatures, painted in the most eye-popping detail)...there was even the diaries of Little Bo Peep, Jack and Jill, and Mary and her Lamb---with chronologies, correspondences, and first hand accounts of other nursery figures (the cow who jumped over the moon---there was an interview with the cow; little Jack Sprat---w/ an account of his affair with Rapunzel), along with illustrated spells and books of potions, and so on... Suddenly, that young woman returned: She stood at the door and mouthed: "Do...you...know...where...you...are...?" "Of course not!" I said. "Tell me!" And she bowed, then whispered: "This way, please..." Everyone perked up: This was the first time this woman had spoken in an age... Suddenly, the walls disappeared: We saw room after room and chambers and grand halls and lavish ballrooms and intimate bed-closets and crawlspaces and passageways and cabinets...And there were mansions and cottages and huts and castles...and, as we walked, she pointed to everything; and I gazed again and again at a compendium of spaces across the ages, some opulent, some immensely modest, some vast, some tiny and crowded, and all with precious cargo: the keepsakes and jewels and plants and statues, and beasts and paintings and on and on, of the innermost soul; all surrounded by exquisite gardens and mystical forests and vast skies and birds flying to far off magical destinations...a compendium of wondrous inner worlds. And it dawned on me that my initial impression was right: This was the interior of a creative heart and soul: the creative nexus, the global village of the inner creative life. And those stuffed animals, etc, were just one collection of countless; one carnival, one enclave in the vast ocean of imagination. The young woman whispered: "I'm finished". "Wait!" i cried: "One more question! Who does this belong to?" The woman mouthed a name, but I couldn't hear it. Then she left.... Realizing that I was still in Barb's image---and you weren't supposed to be in people's images (if you stay in a work of art too long, the universe can explode)---I walked to the image's edge, and jumped out. Then: "Wait! I know who this belongs to!" As I came to the barrier between art and life---it's a thin barrier, and quite permeable---I saw a signature in the side of a tree: Yes, I was right! I knew who these realms belonged to... I buttoned my coat, and returned home. In the background, that dance had become global: singing and shouting and swirling into the night; the whole universe could hear them...I stuffed away a tiny creature I'd stolen from the image, and disappeared... (For Barb and her realms of magic and wonderful beauty...) ------------------