Whenever I’m out and about, whether I’m looking for it not it always seems that inspiration finds me. It could be a piece of architecture, a person’s story, a found object.
More often than not it is the latter and I come home with a little treasure. Something I’ve found on a shelf, hidden in the bottom of the basket, or discarded in a jumble of chains that I’ve rescued. With no project in mind, but having fallen in love with its beauty, its history and its potential, I undoubtedly hand over my pennies, bring it home and add it to my ever growing stash.
And in my stash is where it so often stays. And ashamedly forgotten about all over again by its rescuer. Cue a new project, all the elements in place. Construction underway, each piece lovingly pieced together by hand: contemplated, rearranged, removed, re-added, rearranged once more. And voila, complete. Except for that step back and final assessment; the realisation that something is not quite right. Something is missing, the final element that will make this creation truly live. And so the rummage through the oodles of secret stashes; the jars, the bags, the boxes all brimming with treasures that once captured the imagination. The excitement that grows, like a child at Christmas, as is found once again the brooch from the car boot, the broken necklace very nearly thrown away, the vintage pendant with a thousand stories to tell. And that moment, the moment when that one thing you have been searching for is found, hidden in the corner of a tub under a mass of chains and broken earrings. You hold it up, then down, then up again. The piece you bought, not knowing what or how it could be used, but knowing it would be worth it.