Why is it so hard to create? Rather, do we create or recreate? Is it then possible to (re)create without purpose - or is that a necessary contradiction? A song, a stroke, a thought - so wonder the minds of the works of a God who spoke the universe into being.
I visited ABBAS yesterday with a friend, and even encountered the penmanship of others whom I haven't seen in a long time in the visitors' log, to my pleasant surprise. It was immersive. It was a story of a man trying to tell a story. The monochrome displays spoke volumes of soul-drenched history into the dark expanses of the exhibition. The stinging skepticism with which he framed reality compartmentalised his thought as much as the ebony dividers did his photography in the hall.
More significantly for me, his words lingered. "The traveller never arrives." I knew what that meant, somewhat. It was his creative process. But later in the evening, I realised I might say the same thing in a different way. It seems to Abbas, the traveller never arrives because his wanderlust is precisely his destination. In that way, it might make more compositional sense to say that the traveller is always arriving.
