Recently,
I found
a painted clay apple.
I’d forgotten
I owned it.
I bought it
when I was
very young.
It weighs
much more
than a real apple.
It looks
almost exactly
like one.
I smiled.
A few days later,
I lost it again.
Some objects
seem happier
inside stories
than drawers.
Years later,
working
at the British Museum,
I found myself
drawn
to unusual objects.
Not always
the famous ones.
One of my favourites
was an ancient
Greek vase.
Decorated
with,
amongst
other things,
that very
same vase.
It stopped me
in my tracks.
For a brief moment,
it seemed
to know
what it was.
Then there was
the British Library.
The Reading Rooms.
Shelves
of books.
Books
whose only job
was helping
you find
other books.
Books
about books.
Since then,
I’ve started
noticing
these curious things.
When I use
a bag
to hold
other bags.
A photograph
of a photograph.
Objects
about
other objects.
Like pages
on the web.
Links
to other pages.
Search engines.
Indexes.
Catalogues.
A vast,
beautiful,
machine
for finding
other things.
Somewhere
along the way,
we quietly decided
that digital
was enough.
When I finish
reading
an article,
I can’t
accidentally
rediscover it
twenty years later
inside another book.
When I leave
a beautiful website,
there’s nothing
to tuck
into my pocket.
Perhaps
what we’ve lost
isn’t paper.
It’s print shops.
Every good
digital experience
should have one.
Not selling
mugs.
Or T-shirts.
Just one
carefully chosen
paper-based
object.
One that
somehow
belongs
to the story.
I’ve often wondered
why cinemas
don’t have
gift shops.
Museums do.
Art galleries do.
Historic houses do.
Music concerts
certainly do.
But cinemas...
send us
straight
back
into the car park.
Again,
I don’t mean
a poster.
Or a plastic figure.
I want
the object
that somehow
contains
the film.
After
The Swimmer,
perhaps
a tiny card
that looks
exactly like
a blue pool tile.
After
Jaws,
a sticker
shaped
like a pebble.
And after
Brazil...
not a T-shirt.
An envelope
of Ministry paperwork.
Official.
Stamped.
Almost meaningless.
Yet somehow
holding
the entire film.
I’ve seen
this trick
before.
Mr Benn.
Walking
into a shop.
Stepping
through a door.
Living
an adventure.
And always
returning home
with one
small thing
in his pocket.
Not treasure.
Evidence.
A tiny bridge
between
two worlds.
Perhaps
that’s what
I’ve been looking for
all along.
One day,
someone
will clear out
this house.
Most of
these objects
will disappear.
Perhaps
they should.
Not everything
deserves
to survive.
Although,
for the record,
books
do make
excellent insulation.
Thermal.
Intellectual.
Emotional.
And,
if you insist
on measuring
such things,
they’re rather good
at storing carbon too.
Every bookshelf
is a small forest
that decided
to become
a conversation.
Perhaps
that’s why
I’ve started
making
little objects
to accompany
these articles.
Not merchandise.
Not marketing.
Just something
to carry
the idea
a little further.
A sticker.
A bookmark.
Something
to lose.
Something
to find again.
Because
sometimes
the smallest object
turns out
to be
the one
that keeps
the whole story
alive.
