Tiny stitches of red, black and white, multicoloured stripes. The smells – leather reminiscent of a buzzing bazaar in Bahrain, of camels, of a warehouse full of books, lovely books. A zigzag road of white and black crisscrossing the desert, going who knows where but followed for the adventure, for the pleasure and titillation of not knowing. Coins inside from different countries, writings reminders of thoughts and deeds in foreign lands; yet all leading home in the end.
We talked about “Where is home?”, well for now it is here and there, wherever I happen to be yet always anchored to a pile of neatly arranged millstone grit in West Yorkshire. The love of travel, of adventure, of new discoveries, always tempered by the love of home and all it contains and represents. A purse, a book – both beautiful objects in their own way, both anchoring here and there, both public yet personal.
The detail does matter, each was chosen for some intangible desire to have that specific object, a purse or a book that cried out to me and now sings in so many ways of so many lands.
Grit in the oyster.