Well, it took nearly six weeks in the city before the mountains pushed back into my imagination. I woke up on Saturday and wanted, desired, a walk high up with a view. The best I could manage was walking down one of Berlin's gently sloping streets (there aren't many of those even). And of course I experienced a fascinating voyage, which I'll blog about here later.
I also felt a longing to be cosy in a little house in the mountains. There was one village in the French alps that I remembered wandering around. Near deserted but with small signs of life, of lives. A cat curled up in a basket on a balcony table. Flowers in a garden, tended, weeded. Signs of care taken. Quiet lives that fit into the landscape, into elbows of land between rocks, between paths and mountains, on flat patches of land. Ensconced in the land; working with it, not bashing into it with concrete and bulldozers.
As the first snow comes to Berlin, I consider this imagined desire metaphorically, in relation to my art. Not bashing into my landscape with concrete and bulldozers but finding quiet ways that fit how it is.
I might also just ring that woman who may have a house to let...