The Stories We Tell
In the stories of our lives that we are constantly recounting, revising, reimagining, there tend to be some themes or tropes that recur, and of these, the stories that we tell about why we are doing something, is one of the most enduring. These narratives become the ‘containers’, within which the real objectives that even we may be unconscious to, can remain hidden, either from a critical world, or even ourselves. They are like Trojan horses, the innocent, even commendable exterior bearing its hidden far more potent cargo in secret.
With me I recognise that wherever I go and whatever the true underlying purpose, I always tell myself, and other interested parties, that I am going to write and paint. Undeniably I love both activities, which I have productively engaged in across most of my life, yet, when examined more closely, they simply give legitimacy to what might otherwise be viewed as odd, frivolous or otherwise questionable. People know that I write and paint pictures (also take fine art photos), so those who might be sceptical of the true purpose are readily convinced by the containing narrative. These narratives become the vehicles for our lives, carrying us upon our journeys, whilst obfuscating its real purpose.
I am nearing the end of my stay in the north of England, a venture discussed in ‘Was it all a Dream’ post. Having little idea why I was coming here and what I would do, I constructed the customary narrative around writing and painting; or in this case told myself I could travel around the region taking fine art photos of what was once a thriving coal mining area, with standard, if now abandoned, colliery infrasructures which could make striking and surreal black and white photos. Having spent part of my earlier life as an archaeologist (albeit of South America), the industrial archaeological lure of this region was not without its influence. That, and with the coming of better weather, I could bus around the Peak District’s areas of outstanding natural beauty, also taking photos, which could then be worked into paintings. I was convinced this could work, and give this stalled and empty period of my life a new purpose perhaps.
In time, as I worked down through the deeper parts of my psyche, rather as a coal miner works the deepest underground seams, I realised this was, in fact, simply another container or wrapping, disguising its contents, which, when removed, revealed a Himalayan mountain scape as unchanged as the symbol of my ultimate goal as it had ever been. And it has been this way since I first returned to the UK in June 2022, telling myself I was returning to engage in ‘Works Still to Do’. Those works now done, the mountains and the high altitude temples call me again to return.
Was it all a Dream?
