Wednesday, 5 February 2014
On an otherwise inauspicious, blowy morning in early February, whilst shopping in the market town where I live, my eye lights excitedly upon a pair of child's woollen mittens, strung together by a scrap of primrose yarn, hanging midway between other handknitted gloves and mittens from a rail in one of the local charity shops.
I am drawn at first to the colour; a deep, soft, royal blue, intense yet subtle, although other details delight. The mittens are quite small, probably knitted for a child of around six or seven years of age, and are obviously made by hand; slight irregularities about the thumbs enchant me. I imagine slipping them on, feeling the reminiscent roughness of the wool against my skin, easing my thumbs into place, holding my mittened hands up before my eyes to enjoy the colour.
In my mind's eye there float three drawings, one of which is the drawing of the blue mittens, shadowy as yet, but vital enough for me to begin to see a way forward in terms of the process by which I would attempt to realise it. Enthused and emboldened by my find of the little mittens, I visit the nearby art supplies shop, where I select a Sennelier chalk pastel of the same vibrant hue, taking pleasure in it's luxurious friable quality, envisaging the lively blue against the velvet darkness of graphite powder, and the mild creaminess of the paper.
Something has begun in my psyche, a precious, long hoped for rennaissance, a most welcome re-birth of intent, desire and purpose, which, taking place after an agonising eternity of waiting and self abnegation, thrills me, surprises me by it's very intensity, persuades my ever doubting self that the journey upon which I am about to embark, although fraught with peril, will, eventually, prove to have been one of worth.