The Sound of History

untitled, 1989, by Sarah Seager

A good deal of thought and time has been spent recently going through historical events, both personal and shared.   Of course as usual, there is a cause for the analysis, for the culling of memories, the examination of actions that surrounded the actual events, the outcome, the procession into the next round of movements.  The wonder of it all is the sounds, the tone of a persons voice, the timbre and pitch, and the slow cadence as it proceeds to resolution of thought.  We tend to remember history from a visual perspective, silent and moving.  Instead it is anything but that, ringing with sound and fury, screaming out for recognition, for conversations to be acknowledged and heard.

Over a glass of wine with S last night, we noticed the silence.  The week itself had been filled with activities that had led to a culmination of actions and finality.  Boxes and folders of slides gone through, paint applied one coat at a time cover a dark undercoat, furniture moved, a new life of independence for one life began.  The second life that was addressed was tenderly protected, items placed safely together, away from the elements and the possibilities of loss.  Essentially two lives were given freedom to progress forward, within spaces that are divergent and yet present.  And for all the silence that we noticed, we heard the sounds of the past ringing within our ears.

They say that a happy life is found within those that learn to forget, to move beyond the wrongs committed, the angry words that may have been said long ago that affected the trajectory of ones dreams.   The ability to not so much forgive, but to ignore the immediate actions of others that maybe following hidden agendas that only time will reveal; focusing only on the work that is at hand, the work that leads to catalogs of slides and images that show a firm rooting to a present churning of a rich life.   Echoes from the past may yammer, pressing to be heard as ghosts that desire recognition and attention.  Yet they have little power if ignored, only gaining traction if we allow them to be heard.

Sitting in last of the days light, streamers of spider webs can be seen flowing in the trees as the breezes scatter by.  Elongated and un tethered they ripple in the air free and iridescent in the sunlight.   Unattached they stretch out for what seems to be miles, floating within the sea of air that bathes us all, unfettered, untangled and free to just be.



About Sarah Seager

I am an artist that works and lives in the wilds of Los Angeles.
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