The iron stains...how is something so beautiful a result of decay? Heavy on my mind lately, and always, are memories and our human incapability to mentally preserve everything. I remember a series of books that delighted me in elementary school. The main character's name was Cam, short for "Camera," because of her photographic memory which allowed her to solve mysteries. How often I have wished I could direct my vision towards something, say "click" and create a perfect memory, an indestructible file of exactly what was happening, what I was feeling and such. This is, however impossible and though cameras are readily available, they seem insufficient and lacking in this matter.
Memories, we live in fear of losing them. Of forgetting a name or car keys, of growing old and losing what indeed feels to be your identity, of going back to your childhood home and finding it destoyed or altered in some way. This need to remember dates far back, perhaps past the beginnings of oral tradition, but at least that far. Humans then felt the importance of collective memory, story-telling...which, quite strongly, paved the way for the beginnings of art making. Artists are, in a sense, story-tellers; preservers and maintainers of memories/thoughts whether they be collective or individual.
Next Wednesday will see me boarding a plan to head back to San Diego. I believe the correct term to be "WOW." I wish that I could stand inside of Richard Serra's steel sculpture forever, to put my hands and face to the rough surface, to make paintings and sketches of the shapes therein, to stand back and feel small next to so enormous a creation. Only He knows how to prepare me for whatever these next few years hold, and I think it ok to be a little scared of that.