I have a distinct memory from when I was six or seven, when my friend from school taught me an activity that started with picking a few flowers, then finding a shard of broken glass (an easy task in an inner city park in Warsaw). She then insisted on choosing a suitable place underneath a tree, digging a hole and burying first the arranged flowers, next covering them with the shard of found glass on top in the ground. To my amazement, she then wanted to bury the whole thing and cover it with soil we just dug up.
For a while, I never understood the point of this to be honest. For some reason this whole activity stuck in my head over the years and it keeps resurfacing in my memory from time to time.
I think I get it now though. Something in us all as humans wants to be remembered, to desperately not be forgotten. You have probably heard people say that it’s rare for us to know the names of our great grandparents, even rarer to know the generation before them. Our life is but a moment, fleeting, the memory of who we are is fragile. There’s something in all of us that wants to preserve a precious moment - just like that shard of glass with the crushed flowers, buried in the ground by a couple of kids. Maybe someone in the future can find it? In this naive and innocent way, perhaps we would have left a mark on this earth, a small part of ourselves; frozen in time.
As a weaver, time is slow. Last week I was filming instructional videos for backstrap weaving and my husband commented on how observing the process of weaving more closely, he was put off by how time consuming and complicated it is. This is why I like it though. The passing of time when painstakingly setting up my loom, then weaving, then finishing, then sewing… there is something grounding in that. Time becomes slower, but also faster. When I look at a finished piece of weaving, I can distinctly remember what I was listening to when making that piece or a specific section of it. It’s like time froze for me in those moments.
My current work is based on the incredible nostalgic The Sims 2, which is a game that many of us look back on fondly: that experience connects many of us. Time is a different beast in gaming. You can spend hours playing and it feels like minutes. When I asked people on Instagram about their memories of playing The Sims 2, someone shared how she forgot to go to the toilet or to eat which is what I used to do as well. But gosh it’s good when you’re in that zone, that time poured into it feels so sweet and immersive.
As you can tell, I’ve been thinking about time a lot in the past few months. I am currently 6 months pregnant and because of this, time has started to take on a more tangible meaning for me. As each hour and day passes, I physically become bigger; time is literally displayed in my body for everyone to see. Time has become a visible measure by which I can keep holding onto the idea of independence or space to do what I want, while my body clearly shows me week by week that what I grasp onto so dearly is becoming not fully mine. I’m approaching a moment when my relationship with time will change and it will become more selfless.
One of my favourite artworks that constantly inspires me and I keep going back to and thinking about is Katie Patterson’s The Future Library. The project consists of the artist planting 1000 trees deep in the Norwegian forest. Those trees are to be used for pages for writers to print pieces of literature produced specifically for the project. This will then be put in a trust and preserved for people for 100 years from now who will be able to read the work. This artwork is specifically made for the future, it will be untouched for now. It’s a total secret.
There’s something absolutely beautiful about this preservation of time. It’s actually a very optimistic and positive piece of work about the longevity of the future, in a time when things feel quite bleak. Part of the artist and everyone involved is preserved for the future, making art that lasts.
Ultimately, what we’re all aiming for is for what we enjoy to last forever. As an artist, how can what I do and make stand the test of time? How can that work feel relevant to who I will become in the future, when the future feels so unknown? How can I make work that is timeless? How can it connect me with people of the past, present and future? Maybe it’s through the connection of our shared experience of the passing of time, which across different generation, feels similar and ageless.
Thanks so much for reading!
I'm going to be teaching a tapestry weaving backstrap class on Tuesday the 16th of September at Charleston House which should be a really special event. As part of your ticket, you'll have a tour of the historic house and gardens, as well as lunch. Sounds like an absolutely fantastic day. If you want to join me or know anyone else who would be interested, book below.
Have a great rest of your Sunday,
Alex x