There is what happens, and what we see happen. The past, history itself even, illustrated on a personal level in rough sketches or exquisite oils. Each time we revisit this inner landscape, we retrace, redraw, repaint ourselves into the fabric of fact, the sanctuary of fiction. Intellectual, defensive, emotional, whatever the vantage point, we are continuously reinventing the same occurences. If however, we feel ourselves begin to lose touch with this place inside of us, can’t somehow remember the way, then all we have to do is reach for that tattered old photo, piece of cloth, button, cinema ticket, ribbon ….
One touch is all it takes, the faint fragrance that creates the memory of that familiar taste at the back of the throat. Snap, the image comes back into focus, pixel sharp and HD ready. If the camera never lies, then what about the eyes ? Do they serve only to record the combined feel, smell, taste and look of an object ?
There will be certain imovable landmarks along the path of your memory, separated only by the constantly shifting sands of time. The largest desert is moving, one immense organism, slowly covering up any trace of remembered existence and in turn, revealing that which cannot be forgotten.