Secret Histories

Photographs can be such a personal thing, each time I come away from my local antiques centre with a couple of old pictures I feel as though I've been let in on a secret somehow - that wherever the subjects ended up I hold a moment of their history in my hands. Curiosity means I tend to start decoding before I even get them home; how old does she look? What clues do her clothes give to the decade? What does her expression say about her? 

There is only so much to decipher by looking, the rest is a mystery, and that is where the appeal lies. I've always had an overactive imagination so I let it loose and see where it takes me; sometimes I'll invent elaborate family trees and a rich backstory other times a little summary of important points to note - prefers lemon curd to jam, likes to leave a trail of breadcrumbs for the ducks with the crust of her sandwich. Posed portraits are lovely to look at and I own quite a few but the exciting finds are images captured by accident. Rebecca caught my eye - the outtakes especially - her expressions make me think there is plenty going on beneath the surface and infinite possibilities as to her story. I found Grace, Katherine and Rebecca in the same box and I'd like to imagine they know one another - even if the decades don't quite match up!

It could be the Downton Abbey fan in me but images of life below stairs are some of my favourites, there is so much to surmise in the picture of the girls grouped around the table having tea and the coat hung on the back of the door feels spectre like - very ghost-at-the-feast. I'd love to know what you think the story is behind that scene!

Notebook Hoarding

The opening page of a fresh notebook is a heady mix of new stationery aroma and possibilities, I get caught up in the ceremony of putting pen to paper and setting the tone for any scribbles to follow, so much so that there are several notebooks in my stash yet to receive a maiden scrawl. I’m waiting for a worthy and perfect thought or idea to strike, you see.  The longer I wait, the bigger the expectation grows until eventually I feel as though even Shakespeare would be hard pushed to do justice in kicking off proceedings and therein lies the trap.  It is around this time that I’ll start crooning over other notebooks while out and about: cover fondling, page sniffing (I’ve become accustomed to the peculiar looks this earns me), flicking through pages and testing their weight in my hand.  After a suitable period of procrastination I’ll inevitably find myself lured into a stationers by necessity – paperclips, glue or pens are the main culprits – and instead be seduced by the siren song of notebook adventure.  When it comes to notebooks I am powerless against the rush, all self control exits stage left.

   

That isn’t to say I have dozens of them lying empty around my house, the great thing about being a notebook hoarder is that once you have a couple of newer editions the older crop start to look more accessible and before I know it I’m halfway through the ornate purple number with the cream lined pages and heavy magnetic clasp.  Gifted notebooks upset the cycle completely, instead of the need to be worthy of the first page I tend to write in them almost immediately with whatever is on my mind that day – these turn into journals or inspiration books, full of daily-life stuff and pictures torn from magazines of whatever makes my heart flutter.  Regardless of the rest there is always one constant slow-burner, a notebook with an added degree of special to me that I want to take my time filling and keep for life, this one was a gift from Tristan a few years ago and is all heavy marble-edged paper with a beautiful deep red leather binding. The smell is out of this world.

   

I once knew a person who had a dozen identical notebooks, one per year, filled at the rate of a page per day and shelved together when completed, from an interior design standpoint it looked good, but somehow it made me sad.  For me, part of the joy in having a little library of notebooks at my fingertips is the way I can grab whichever takes my fancy when I’m struck with inspiration while I can’t sleep at night, and the unpredictable journey each notebook takes – I’ll write pages upon pages of thoughts or stories - then my next entry could be weeks later about a recipe I’m experimenting with.  There’s a certain kind of magic about the rainbow of spines in a varied stack of notebooks too – all different sizes and textures and each with their own story to tell, which never turns out to be quite the plot you think it will at the beginning.  I like to pick and mix – some of mine are pastel and pretty, some are fabric covered and tactile whereas others wouldn’t look out of place in the Hogwarts library. 

   

Whatever your taste there will always be a notebook that fits and sometimes, the very special ones, find you. 

You've Got to Pick a Poet or Two

Shamelessly borrowing from Fagin for the title of this post, but it seemed to fit the purpose perfectly! You all know how much I adore books and literature in general, vintage books even more so, but quirky little volumes like these are dream finds for me. Edgar Allan Poe sums up my thoughts on poetry 'Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words' - whenever I need to escape into language it is the ideal distraction. Getting lost in rhyme and meter comes so easily and before I know it I'm swept away on a lyrical tide, all woes long forgotten. On a good day poetry is a dappled light filter over an already pretty picture, on a bad day a transporting mechanism that takes me elsewhere entirely. So many people write poetry off after exhausting, analytical sessions in GCSE English and I can't say I blame them - the life and rhythm are reduced to bullet points and bludgeoned slowly to death. Try picking it up once again when the memory of those agonising double periods is dulled though, and I'm sure you'll find something with a brand of magic that appeals to you. Because that's what it can do - pick out beauty and wonder, love and loss, a huge range of human experience and give it breath in a way that moves you. I've always thought that music is what feelings sound like, whereas poetry is emotion on paper. 

My iPhone is fantastic, having Shakespeare's entire body of work in an app is great, but it really can't touch the charm of these two little books. If you've ever read Sense and Sensibility you'll know that Willoughby has plenty to answer for, but I do have to appreciate a man who carries sonnets in his jacket pocket!