The story Annemiek has so wonderfully responded to is now so far in my subconscious past that I have almost forgotten it. So I turn to Annemiek’s images to be re-reminded of my own words.
In Annemiek’s picture I see pink, not red, and maybe there’s a connection here between the story I am ‘growing’ into a novella which started with an image from one of her bowls.
The image I had in my head was one of a pale pink rose. And here, I’ve paused in writing this blog to go check the bowl because suddenly I'm not sure if I had re-imagined it.
The bowl has a title: Art Story Bowl Romantic Mouse with a Red Rose.
And I discover that, actually, the colour is red, not pink. And this, I think, is the crux of the matter.
The transference of images, the passing of thoughts, and most of all, the taking up of inspiration.
This is the joy which comes with artists trusting each other and opening their creations out and up for further interpretation.
And so, what remains are images of curtains and tulips. What remains are possibilities. Of love. Of spring. Of hope.
This is something that I try and capture in my story. Here is the opening few lines:
On Thursday 11th March 1976, a bouquet of roses in soft pinks arrived at a hotel on the Dublin-Galway road. And with it, on a high-quality cream envelope, Mabel was written neatly in black, underlined three times.
I'll return to this story now, knowing that the original inspiration came from a red rose, not a pale pink tulip, and that the-image-to-the-word ensures that the words become just what they need to be and nothing more.
