Märchensammler

 'Märchensammler' or 'Fairy-tale Collector' is the album I've been working on since the summer of 2021. As the writing process took its toll on me, I found it increasingly difficult to imagine what the cover would look like, or what I would even call the album altogether; but in a single moment, I imagined, I like to think, exactly this.

The imperfection is part of every art; as you grow in skill, you learn to execute what lies before your mind's eye with increasing accuracy: but every raw idea becomes muddled with details and developments as it grows to it's completion. I think that this is very evident in my own compositions; I start with an inspiration, and it develops into something whole and complete. Many of the pieces are written in F Minor, which I felt said the whimsical words 'once upon a time' in a dark and tragic fashion, befitting the gloom and brooding themes of the whole collection.

As I read through my favourite tales, I stopped at the brief description of Geppetto's time in the Dogfish.

'And how long have you been shut up here?' asked Pinocchio.

'Since that day-- it must be nearly two years ago; two years, my dear Pinocchio, that have seemed like two centuries!'  (Pinocchio, Chapter 35, pg.189).

It spoke of a much larger story, one of great despair, as he spent those many months alone, facing what seemed his inevitable death. With these thoughts I turned to my piano.

 

 If you would be so interested, you can listen to these fairy-tales being told through music on any major streaming platform.

What Happened During My Walk

 One day I felt so crammed, the words so forced between my ears,
It felt like my head was in a whir; my vision felt a-blur, a-stir with thoughts that did not come out onto the page, how-ever much I tried, the words stayed inside my head and there they laid, biding in my mind.
I peeked out the window. It was a nice spring day. It was without wind or rain: so I went outside and walked along the lane, taking any further attempts of writing to be in vain.
I looked for the words in the clouds. But they gave me none. The sky was filled with those clouds, and with a slight warm breeze. But they gave me no words that day, so I continued on my way, taking in nature’s display.
I looked across the meadow, though which my path had led, and saw this little red cottage out by the farmstead.
‘My! What a cute little house.’ I thought, and continued walking, knowing little what would happen next.
The words had left my mind. I enjoyed instead the feeling of being outside.
Until I turned and saw the house. The winding path lined and signed with grass and flower had left the farm and barn far behind, neither of which I could find.
What? Did it have an identical neighbour? I mused, and I laughed, and I continued on.
My steps they traced up a hill; and going down the other side, I looked back again, I gave a cry, my eyes grew wide, for there the house did now bide, on that very hill-side.
My steps grew faster. My heart began to fail. My face grew pale, my nerves frail. And I wondered what I had done to gain such a giant tail.
When I had the courage I looked back again, and saw it still nearby, and then I cried and ran, but the house followed faster!
faster! faster than any house could or possibly can! And the whole time it thought to itself, ‘My! What a cute little man.’

 

Moon by Night

 

I drew this some time ago.

The wonder of giving away your art is that returning to it later, having forgotten it, is a gift in itself, even when it is not as impressive as you remember it.