Whenever I'm 'really' moved by a painting, drawing or photograph my first sensation is a warm numbness, like sinking into a hot bath, time freezes and I forget myself - its as if all boundaries between self and world seem to dissolve. The second sensation is the generation of a memory, an association with something from the past, a childhood tableau, a scene or emotion that tattooed itself on my still forming subconscious all those years ago. These two sensations occur in a matter of seconds.
I may not have been particularly happy or self aware when that initial memory trace was selected for storage - presumably because some part of my mind thought it important - but never-the-less, it appears to have lain dormant until it spots a 'friend', an image or a precise sensation in the present that tickles it back into wakefulness once again. Makes it stronger.
The third thing that happens to me is the smile. Not just the smile on my face but a deep smile that goes right through my body like a wave. I think its the smile of recognition, two aspects of myself, old and new, making me feel whole again, glad to be me. Because that's the overriding emotion that my favourite art leaves me with: I'm glad to be me with my old neuronal photo album, but I also realise that I'm linked with something much bigger.
Its a variety of Proustian epiphany, a romantic recall, but more vague and all encompassing, like the blowing of a horn somewhere in the darkness of the back brain - the imagination opens up and the world of now and then seems so much bigger and full of exciting possibilities. I suppose that's what art is supposed to do - the genuine article - making the seemingly individual and particular vast and timeless.
Not all so called 'Great art' does the triple whammy on me of course. I can appreciate the technical virtuosity of Rembrandt, the draftsmanship of Durer, understand their paintings as beautiful objects, but still they don't "reach the parts..." in the latter case, its more like: 'This is a Rembrandt, he's apparently a genius, I'm looking back into the 17th century, it feels weird, but somehow good, and I can feel some kind of shared humanity over time and culture', but still, it doesn't fire off an epiphany for me personally - one of us still remains an alien creature.
The Spanish Modernist Joan Miro's Gouache, 'People at night guided by the phosphorescent tracks of snails' (one of the Constellation series), stirred something deep within me when I first saw a reproduction of it around ten or twelve years ago.
The deep nocturnal blue background with the bizarre, black totemic figures swimming around the surface under a bone white crescent moon, triggered an involuntary memory from my teenage years which has now, over time, become a fixed relationship between my remembrance of things past and Miro's imagination - two lovers locked together.
The title too, so surrealist and poetic, just added resonance to my memory and charged it with a deeper symbolism.
For about two years after leaving school in '82, me and a few friends discovered a welcoming little ale house called 'The Crown'.
To sample its unique atmosphere you had to walk about a mile down a quiet country lane, flanked by fields and small copses. The place was always quiet, out of the way, perfect for a few jars in peace. The landlord 'Bill' was a friend of a friend and turned a blind eye to official 'drinking age' regulations, he never said much, just smiled and let it be. I think he was grateful of the custom on the quiet weekdays - we usually did Tuesdays and Thursdays if I remember correctly.
For me and my mates, this was our apprenticeship into adult pub culture: the real world of choking fag smoke, over-spilling brewery stamped ashtrays, soggy beermats, chiming and flashing one armed bandits, soft chairs, roaring fires...and something else, being a grown man at last.
Gone was the childishness of illicit cider swigging on park benches, the Snakebite challenge in a friends bedroom (actually that sounds pervy), noisy 'yoof' parties where everybody was pretending to be more drunk than they were (or just genuinely and embarrassingly paralytic, no inbetweens).
Being able to sit in a pub with a pint and a fag was mature and civilized!
But what I remember with the most affection about these evenings of Yore, was walking back in the dark, or near dark in the summer months, down that winding lane home, being half pissed and happy in the gloom.
Sometimes you could hardly see your hand in front of your face in the winter time, you had to look up at the track of sky, dodge the black looming shapes of vegetation and careening companions, their voices disembodied and freaky and always too loud. Often I imagined my mates had shape-shifted, changed into strange exotic creatures in the void (or does Miro make me think this in retrospect? Does it matter?)
The freezing night skies were fantastic ebony blankets, studied with constellations of stars and strange lights that would be the trigger for tall tales and urban myths. It was just great being young and anticipating the bigness of the future and your destiny within it.
I'd just like to thank Mr Miro and his painting for reactivating, strengthening and enriching this memory for me.
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