Creative: London Notes, Two

You know me. There is always a book. Always. No matter how heavy, no matter that it won’t fit in a pocket, or sleeve, or allotted space. Other things must go to make way. The London Journal, made from images from Albania, with additions by Peru, Antarctica and New Mexico. Pens, blues and blacks. White gel, my personal favorite. Nothing is sacred here. Although I share what a spread might look like, this book isn’t for you, or them or those over there. This book is for me. A counterpoint offensive to the always-on modern world of the social performer. The selfie in front of statue persona. If a tree falls in the woods, does the statue exist?

Why on Earth? The Digital Age, after all. If you have to ask you might be outside the conversation that matters. The top talent still, after all these years, covets the page more than anything else. The sugar fix of social is habit, or vice, even for the most successful. Behind the cacophony of the informational blitzkrieg lives a quiet place of personal reflection, of the anguish of knowing you can never keep up. There lives a belief of something more. And this, my friends, is where the book enters the stage.

The book might be the lead, or the character actor or the day trader without a single line of dialogue. The presence alone can carry the scene because the thought behind the intention requires more than a thumb swipe, a fixing of the hair or a wardrobe change. No, someone had to write the script, the backbone of why we are here. The script. Front to back, left to right. Placement, spacing, angle, direction and manipulation of you the audience member. The journal is the rewrite in the middle of the night. Percolating thoughts of the director. Happiness, madness. Building the message one letter at a time. All consuming, however brief. Wildly satisfying.