This is something I've been thinking about over the last couple of months. As soon as we cleared out the "horsey" stuff, the atmosphere in the box changed. The soft creams of the internal paintwork, the slightly rusty blue and black of the external, the setting against a bank of wild (and I mean wild!) Joe Pie weed (Eupatorium purpureum,I think) that can grow 6 feet high in a season, buzzing with honey bees and heavily scenting the air, mingled with vicious brambles (with the most delicious blackberries come autumn), nettles, ragwort etc, the coppiced ash and hazel in the wooded area above bursting forth since their number 2 hair cuts a couple of years ago.... the faint rumble of the M5 when the wind blows from the west, the clouds piling in up the River Severn, and yet often never reaching our secret hideaway, for that matter the mist and low cloud billowing over the top of the escarpment.... the stunning sunsets, the dark gloomy mornings, all make for a secret special place.
There is something about going into a small confined space that our brains tell us is unwise.(must be the caveman or woman in us all- is there a wild animal lurking in the depths, or is it safe...?) And yet the horsebox draws us in, irresistibly like Alice or Edmund and Lucy in those far off children's books. And once we are in there, outside world sounds are muffled, the gentle curve of the roof somehow comforts us and puts us at our ease, the pale walls and natural light flooding in (or not) create a restful, calm and tranquil setting.
It was fascinating that when we had our "dummy run" in the summer after our art camp days, we just all wanted to sit in the box, and look out, and up at the art, the protective shell around us. We could imagine bringing in cushions and old kelim rugs, cozying around with hot drinks, our fingers clutching our mugs in the winter... perhaps with tea lights flickering outside on the ground, like glow-worms flitting around in Mediterranean climes (dream on some more) It was a reaction we all felt- strongly and powerfully. Is this some Freudian thing going on- we've climbed back into our mother's womb, or our Earth mother's womb, our collective womb? Or is it sanctuary from the wild excesses of 21st century life? That we can still make ourselves shelters (ok, I know from something already manmade- but don't spoil the concept, pleeeeze!), that we can protect ourselves from the busyness, the hectic lives, the rushing time passing us by, by creating a haven, a quiet, calm haven that we can fill with whatever we like, however we like? Is it an adult's tree house, wendy house, or den in the woods, that we all dreamed of as children, even if we never actually had anything more than a sheet over a table.....
I would love to have your thoughts on this- please do comment!
I've been thinking about how content we all felt sitting in the garage drinking tea and chatting. I wonder if it might have been that we fitted comfortably in the room - not squashed, not lost in a corner. We had a light, lowish ceiling, walls, albeit of paper, with open views. I also wonder if it was significant that we had nothing around us that was not relevant at that time - tables, chairs, tea, cakes, and, of course, good company.
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