1. The little pig.
I have a little black pig. If I close my fingers over it, in my palm I sense the warmth of ebony wood. And if I move my fingertips over that, I feel tiny carved ridges around its body. If I peep among the carved patterns, I will find the outlines of three shamrocks on each porky side.
My pig’s squat feet, cut flat, have provided a level support for each tucked corner it has lived in, over many a year, while it’s snout, along with cocked ears, maintains a character not to be ignored.
In Dublin, some 60 years ago, I held and slipped this miniature souvenir into my bag, wanting it to represent Ireland to me on my first visit there. My upbringing had been within the soft voice and Irishness of a beloved grandmother. She, and her young husband, had started married life in Africa n 1906, never to return. After they died, I hoped to revive certain contacts in Ireland, albeit briefly.
I had little money, but in those late 1950s, I was able to procure a room with a memorable view down onto the bustling central O’Connell Bridge. Horses clopped; traffic seemed random. After I crossed the Bridge over the sluggish wide river, I savoured the Language of the Irish brogues, and the open friendliness at streetside stalls, where I found my souvenir. then I moved swiftly to experience Dublin’s historical venues.
On a day visit, in recent years, I found many solid buildings, venues, unchanged, except for the new veneer of hurry; the people mixed and numerous. My hotel and surrounds have vanished. My family history is rooted more south, involving exploration of those parts.
No matter, my black Irish pig stays with me, has re-located with me, and will always remain a warm flash reminder of ‘old world’ connections, from the middle of my hand.
2. A tiny Print.
My photographer husband made many ‘test exposures’ and prints on random off-cuts of photo-paper, any size. One day, I picked up a stamp-sized print, lying aside. On it, reproduced, was a tiny black- penned portrait of a young man with a felt peaked hat and high-collared costume. That would have been from among a number of rapid sketches I had made during rehearsals for the musical ‘Fiddler on the Roof’. Memories sweep back at a glance. I see the warm glow of stage lights on roughly textured garments; on created stage log cabins; we are swept along in shared enthusiasms, humour, challenges, words and songs re-played, while I design, paint - and paint. We create a lit sky, for silhouetted figures. The final scene must fulfil its touching poignancy. as the fiddler’s violin plays its lament from a rooftop.
There is no colour in that tiny print from the 1980s, but my mind floodlights scenes and spaces for the forgotten youngster there...
So much has flowed on, since then, in careers and lives; we have moved on... over the seas.
In the old town, thespians try to pull together the threads, gallantly, and against unending odds.
It is still with a start of surprise, that I find I have secreted somewhere, anywhere, a tiny paper, and its picture. It carries deep values aligned to a certain past.
3. A Beetle.
Another small creature. lives on, in my company. It is not easy or comfortable, though it fits into the centre of the palm of my hand. It is the actual size and true shape of a Dung Beetle, because it was cast directly from an African beetle. I keep it on a small bed of cotton-wool, because, made in silver, it is a little heavy, and has 6 sharp, jointed legs as well as a raised horn, like a tiny rhinoceros. The smooth, shiny wings and under-belly are clearly defined.
A pleasing young man, who was to become part of our family in the early 1980s, was apprenticed to become a silversmith. He moulded and cast varieties of objects, for experience. His dried-out Dung Beetle, on the table, revived childhood memories for me, of observing, crouched, balls of dung being heaved along a dusty route, by determined small creatures in armour. Here, it was immortalised in silver... Please, I asked, may I keep that work of yours ... as a memento...?
The young man moved on, working with gold and precious stones. Dung beetles long forgotten. Then the momentum of lives, dependants, worlds, and changes.
In Egypt, the ball of dung, when it is rolled by their own Scarab Beetle, is described as the Earth, while the beetle is said to be the Sun.
For me, the weight of the oval, the permanence of the silver, on its bed forever, remains a reassuring occupant of changing drawers and shelves ...
4. A card slot.
I hold, with pleasurable memories, a cool, smooth white card, smaller than a playing card, with a discreet pocket behind, for a room key card. It has no embellishments, save a plain name, without serifs, and a neutral outline of Tower Bridge, London. Gently pull a reverse matching card behind, and a cleverly folded, concertinaed paper world, is opened up.
For patrons, there are fully illustrated temptations and guides to all that is instantly available. But turn that over, and voila’! ... a comprehensive map of London’s Tower region, including the river Thames, historical features, road maps, venues...
I sigh, remembering.... the May/June gentle sunshine descends for me, over the map.... there is the large, jolly, excited crowd spreading across the touring boat which took us to Greenwich, to music, to wandering, and back. The boat floated under Tower Bridge, where people hung over, waving and laughing. The Guide made certain his cargo was entertained and gripped by his commentary all the way.
We strolled across that bridge, and examined closely, the time-honoured layers of bricks which told their own tales of life on the river. Tourists, in anticipation, lined up to see the treasures in the Towers. We headed, instead, for the experience of high views from the Shard ...long, far gazes over amazing London, with sight of the river curling away like a serpent towards the distant sea.
At night, the bridge sinks into enchanted blues, hung with beads of sparkling lights. Colourful hues over the river, change until dawn. By day, the old castle walls, light filtering through fresh leaves on ancient trees, enticing streets, buildings of conflicting periods , and the wharfs...with yachts, Mediterranean restaurants , seductively lit with candlelight at night; long reflections in the water.
A serene happiness of companionship and peace, prevailed, unhurried... .strolls and smiles to be treasured..
This excursion came as a surprise offer to share ...a now suspended moment, and stage, resting, without demands or worldly obligations.
My friend moves on...a flying albatross..
I simply open my paper concertina, for the music to play.
I find it again, and again.
Amai is a Set Designer, Artist! Lover of written words. Lives in England.
