The Art of Giving
The Art of Giving
I went to see the The Edinburgh Book Sculptures Tour 2012 recently when it visited Aberdeen Central Library. Ten
book-sized sculptures, twisted bits of paper, cut up pages, glue and occasional
flashes of colour that made up incredibly detailed, beautiful images of scenes
and messages from and to the literary world. They were found throughout 2011 in
various locations across Edinburgh including the Scottish Poetry Library, the
Writer’s Museum and the Edinburgh Book Festival. They are extraordinary,
brilliant pieces of art but what astounded me most was their provenance. To
this day the artist is anonymous. From a note left by the artist with the final
offering we know that she is a She, but that is all. She has not revealed
herself despite a media search and mass, adoring calls for revelation. She has
not stood up and said ‘It’s me and I’m available for commissions’ which would
undoubtedly make her fortune as they are wildly popular and surely collectable.
The very idea of this woman devising, inventing and creating these exquisite
works, then simply leaving them in spots across the city and waiting for them
to be discovered for absolutely no personal gain, in this time of rabid
materialism, is nothing short of astonishing. It is the purest example of a
gift I have ever seen.
It got me thinking about the
impulse to give, to what extent people give and at what cost. Myself, I am not
comfortable with receiving. A life coach once told me that it was something I
needed to work on, but I remain a giver. I adore thinking about, choosing,
making or buying and handing over gifts to people and knowing that they will
cause pleasure. I am much more comfortable offering hospitality and assistance
than receiving it. I find my own experiences of birthdays and Christmas
stressful and I am getting worse with age. I am happy to save up and buy myself
something, but perhaps I feel I have earned that by going without something
else first. I can clearly imagine what She felt as she sat and thought about
what to create for each location she wished to give something to: the glee with
which she devised and crafted each piece, the leap of joy she felt when she hit
on another clever idea or link for her potential recipient; the pride and
perhaps nerves experienced when the piece was finally finished; the thrill of stepping
into the beneficiary building, of scouting out the best place to leave it, the
wait until the coast was clear, the adrenaline rush when she placed it on the
shelf or table, heart thumping in case she was caught and then skipping out in
delight to wait in happy anticipation for it to be discovered. And when they
were found it wasn’t just the receiver who was thrilled but the entire world
that was quick to follow the discoveries through social media sites, newspapers
and television news articles. People were talking about it in magical, wondrous tones.
The country was knee-deep in recession, addled by a corrupt media and
struggling under a confused coalition government. Saturday night family
entertainment involves tearing false idols down from their pedestal five
minutes after they have enjoyed throwing them up there via a 36p phone vote. In
this context the fact that we could still be enchanted by the simple act of
giving showed a side of humanity that had been missing for a while. The act of
giving as much as the gift itself reminded us to be kinder, live simpler, smile
more.
But what if I look at this from a
different angle? Reading does not come easily to everyone and I believe that
the ability to read and discover other lives, worlds and characters in the
pages of a book is one of the greatest gifts of my life. Books, tales, stories,
words: they are also one of the most precious possessions and memories that I
own. I want to share my writing with others in the form of my novel, but I am not confident enough in my own skills
to believe that it is my ‘gift’ to the readers of the world. I do want to give
people pleasure from reading it, to introduce them to my characters like new
friends, to offer them a thought-provoking theme in a tale that stirs emotions.
I want to give them the same joy I feel when lost in a book, curled up on my
window seat, gripped by the story in my hands. In that way, I suppose it is the
same as wishing to give those I care about any other sort of gift.
The legacy of the Edinburgh Book
sSulptures is perhaps then a perfect example of the basic simplicity of a gift.
An offering from one to another that gives joy in the one who receives as much
as to the one who gives. The act of writing makes me happy. If, one day, it
will give another enjoyment when they read it, it will make me happier still.
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