I’m sitting at my desk mid-morning. It’s that time between second breakfast and lunch when I re-open the curtains I closed against the glare of dawn to catch what might be left of a morning breeze. It’s hot and I’m feeling slightly stressed. The final objects are here in front of me, waiting to be carted off to the museum in the morning. All the drawings need to be completed today. If I stay on top of it, I may have all the drawings for the 2013 season scanned and cleaned up digitally before I leave on Friday.
I confess, I was irritated by these objects of stone and clay – simple, rough things that a moment ago didn’t seem worth this frantic rush to draw. Studying a featureless clay pellet – I don’t know what it is or what it’s for – dutifully pulling out the magnifying glass to look a little closer to be sure I’m not missing something, there it was: a thumbprint.
Nearly three thousand years ago, someone shaped this – whatever-it-is – and impressed a singular mark of their presence into the clay. Someone – who? – took time to create this object. I will take time to draw it – properly.
Humble reflection is in order here: my irritation – and my own creative act – will be gone long before another three thousand years have passed.