I started with a very definite idea, something I believed was immutable. I was going to make a chair that could adorn a huge stone library the walls of which are lined with shelf upon shelf of rare and beautiful books – where, nightly, they would be taken down and read, their words releasing the reader from the bonds of ritual and the drear certainty of days without end. It would be…..it would be…..oh! So many things……..beautiful……perfect…….all I could imagine……..more than I was capable of creating……..
It was all getting very serious and complicated; perhaps, a little overwhelming and perturbing, to the point that I was reluctant to start, knowing that I could not translate the mental to the physical, to draw from my thoughts that which I wanted.
And, I have deadlines to meet. So, I went for a walk.
As the early morning sun rose over the bog and the cuckoo belted out her 2 syllable song, I let go of the fixed and rigid ideas; I let go of all the thoughts that had been occupying me and I looked around and I listened. It was all quite beautiful.
Then, rattling home in the Landrover, looking forward to breakfast and fresh brewed coffee, I thought about how I had been working and why, my motivation and my aim. I have chased the mythical, the unobtainable; and in so doing failed to see. In chasing the ideal I have ignored the overwhelming beauty of all that surrounds me. In trying to perfect, I have complicated, created phantoms to chase, enigmas that I cannot resolve, and I have lost the truth of simplicity, the basic, the unadorned, the unassuming. I have forgotten that all is fleeting; all is change, and not to be taken too seriously.
I have failed, consciously or subconsciously, to see the perfect in the imperfect – the perfection of imperfection. I have lost sight of the humour and become just a little too serious, about everything. So, I changed the soundtrack, if only for a little while and, as I ate breakfast and worked my way slowly through my second pot of coffee, I listened to Baxter Dury belt out his gloriously humorous wisdom. Smiling, I listened on, through a third pot of coffee.
When all was done I wandered out to the workshop, tunes humming gently around my head and began to make a chair – a library chair, a chair for relaxing and reading in – a chair that would be rather nice, and simple! And, that’s how I was going to make it.
I didn’t think too much about it until I got to the seat, and even then I didn’t waste much time pontificating! I decided to leave the board with just straight cut edges, to break from the norm of rounding, smoothing, shaping, and manipulating. And, for a fleeting moment it felt good and I was content. But, I couldn’t help myself – the mischievous took hold of me, and before I knew what I had done, I cut a bevel around the edge of the seat, top and bottom, to soften the harshness of the edge, to be more appealing to my eye – something that, once seen, would only be noticeable by its absence.
This done, I sat in the near completed chair, letting my hands relax on the great rests – they are the arms of a behemoth, born directly from the soil, climbing through the air and rain of all seasons, reaching for light, ultimately to be consumed by fire – and, leant back into its embrace and closed my eyes.
The sounds in the garden began to recede into the distance, and soon I was standing in a boiling mass of people, the air full of smoke, excited laughter and chatter. Looking around in the dim light I saw hundreds of expectant faces, all there, waiting, for the same reason, for the one man, Baxter’s dad. And, as he entered the room and walked towards the low stage, we respectfully parted to form a path, the chatter and laughter replaced by cheers and clapping. Once on stage he proceeded to hit us with his rhythm stick, and lift us all into a joyous rapture, with that wonderful voice, unadorned, uncontrived, honest, intelligent, humorous, simple and perfect.
When all was over I stepped out into the chilly Belfast air, a happy man, and wended my way home, content.
Now, exactly half a lifetime later, I get up out of the chair and my reverie, and step out into the chilly garden air. Behind me is a simple chair, while, perhaps not perfect, I am content with – it is simply a chair, quite possibly a chair for reading in.
It was a pleasure.