Random Ramblings on Time and Perspective

Strange, the tricks of light and perspective; the history of art has a lot to answer for. I’m stood by the backdoor and, a good three hundred or more metres away, there are giants working on the roof trusses of a house under construction. I see these figures, each around 5’10” to 6’0” in height, at much the same height as they would appear if they were standing next to me. Were I to paint, or draw, the scene I’m witnessing, it would be expected that these figures would appear quite miniscule, positioned well on the way towards the vanishing point. Why, for the sake of convention am I expected to diminish their stature; our observation is always subjective, we always interpret the scene laid out before us so, why did anyone ever to take the trouble to lay down rules as to the way we are to portray it? Is it supposed to bring some sort of objectivity to the interpreted world?

I suppose there is a degree of importance to quantifying time and space, to enable us to more easily modify our environment for the sake of efficiency in our daily routines but, it has got me wondering about whether art comes under the category of work or play.

Mind you, I’m not wondering all that seriously, it’s more a case of letting ideas fly off the top of my head (and being bald, I suppose it makes for a smooth take-off as these random thoughts take flight).

Suddenly, I find time has become a greater issue than space, as I await the arrival of the workmen who are going to be renovating our downstairs loo; as I wait each minute seems like a quarter of an hour and, once the appointed time for their arrival has passed the moments seem to stretch out even further. It’s strange how the waiting process plays havoc with temporal values! Where once patience was a virtue I could uphold to a considerable degree, the past few years have swung the pendulum the other way; patience is now a quality which seems to belong to a dim and distant past life. Somehow, whilst anticipating an impending event, I find it impossible to apply my mind to any other task; it only seems possible to concentrate on one thing at a time and, even then, the quality of concentration ain’t what it used to be.

At least these random jottings have helped the time pass more quickly and, I’m relieved to hear the doorbell ring. Meantime, I’ll get on with a little bit more net surfing, before my physio arrives to administer the magic needles once more.