Ever hopeful I booked two tickets in July, for the wheelchair tour of Joseph Cornell’s Wanderlust at the Royal Academy: one for myself, one for a facilitator = vehicle pusher and pleasure sharer. I wish I could go places without travelling. Scotty! Just now sitting up comes at a prize and the journey is enough to wipe me out.
Great art feeds my soul like nothing else. My whole being is animated, challenged, nurtured. Right after, pain and exhaustion may well obliterate the memory of what I’ve seen. As I recover I recall though, and my artist-self – the best part of me -, bubbles over.
Does fury have a half-life? At least I’ve learned something, about loanwords and false friends. Wanderlust translates literally as desire (or lust) to hike. It is a melancholy term, linked to German Romanticism – a sense of wonder hovers. Oh, it oozes yearning. I used to walk for hours; these days I count my steps. I went to exhibitions all the time, crossed over into other worlds…
The tour begins at 9 am. I dream myself there, shapely on a wheeled divan, its engine purring. Eyes wide, ears cocked, notebook at the ready. Then home in the arc of my grin, catalogue in bag.