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How I stop time

and make memories into art

By Inis KondakciuPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
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There is one invariable fact of life. It is the pressure point of the busy and auspicious, the fleeting moment of the young and the uncertain reach of the elderly, the hopeless desire to rewind after the expected but reluctant goodbyes, and the promising gaze into the new and the possible. The one consistent universal experience we all share; the unstoppable passage of time. As people do, we all try to find our own little ways to move and manipulate time to suit our desires and our disciplines. Teenagers act like they know it all already to combat the feeling of uncertainty the uncomfortable part of life hoists upon them. New parents filling camera rolls to the brim with milestones and monthiversaries, hoping that the more memories they make, the longer they get to avoid the phrase “they grow up so fast”. Spending as much time as possible with those who may be leaving, in multiple senses of the word, holding tightly to the belief that the more seconds you make count, the less regrets you will have by the end. Or else simply watching day to day as a bouquet of freshly cut flowers, once bright and fragrant and full of presence, slowly dull and droop within their stagnant vase, serving as a self-inflicted reminder of that one universal truth. However, we humans are crafty creatures. Although we can never stop the passage of time, we are driven enough to discover creative ways around it. Myself included.

My hobby is more so an endeavor, and a particularly simple one. As many of us do, I love receiving flowers. Whether it be from loved ones, or a little something I gift myself on blue days, to me they always meant, “here is a reminder to smile because you are alive”. When I was in high school I took a bunch of extra classes my junior year so I could graduate early. I was listless and ready to move on, I wanted to push time forward into a new phase of my life. In place of what would’ve been my senior year, I moved abroad to Grenoble, France and lived in the same city as my aunt, who I adore like a second mother. Some may call moving abroad to a country you’ve been to barely once before, knowing approximately four words of the language, at the ripe old age of seventeen, is brave. Others may call it anxiety inducing. For me, well, it was the perfect exemplification of winging it. Fast forward about halfway through my year in France. Every day I wake up just as the light of sun peaks over the eternally snow-covered alps and shines into my shoebox dorm apartment. I stretch my legs and swing them out of my pullout couch bed and begin my day. Later as I walk home from six hours of daily intensive French courses, the novelty of living in the country of food and romance having worn off, and the familiar exhaustion of student life setting in once again, I spot a large leaf on the ground, crimson red with six rounded points. I pick it up, pull out the little blue notebook come to my place it inside and press down hard flattening it between the cream pages, absentmindedly continuing my daily habit.

Once I noticed how different the plant life was there than back home, I started collecting flowers and leaves as little treasures on my walk home from class. A little reminder to myself that no matter how tired I was, how frustrated or embarrassed or homesick, that there are beautiful new things out there in the world to discover that I wouldn’t have if I had just stayed where I was. A leaf from a bright orange tree at the height of autumn, a little lilac flower from the ground where my aunt and I had a picnic, a yellow carnation from the bouquet of flowers my parents had delivered to me for my first birthday away from home, and so many more. Soon enough the year was over and I was on a flight back home, with a little blue notebook so full of pressed plants that it was thrice as thick as when I bought it.

That little blue book sat on a shelf in my room for four years, until suddenly there was a worldwide pandemic, and there I was like many of us, bored out of my mind looking for something to keep myself busy. So I cleaned. I cleaned out my room, threw out just about everything that didn’t “spark joy”, and I came across that same little blue notebook. I opened it up and I looked through the pages, being careful not to let that little treasures inside fall out. I started thinking how much I wish I could look at everything I collected without being afraid of losing any of the small and delicate items. And then it hit me, a simple idea. I found an old photo frame that my mom kept meaning to throw out and I asked if I could have it. I scoured the garage, a woman on a mission, looking for my hot glue gun. I carefully took every Little memory out of the notebook and spread them out on a table. With a pair of scissors I snipped at stems and flower buds and assembled a collage against the white backdrop of the frame, flipping it over with no small amount of difficulty, pressing it down with my hands and the tips of my scissors until the flaps of the frame back tore stinging little cuts into my fingers, and the corners were secured against the glass. When I lifted the finished piece up to the light and looked at display of my little collection if front of me, looking like a stopped moment in time, I loved it. I absolutely loved it. I was so utterly proud of it and it brought me so much joy for such a simple little thing.

From then on I decided, if I can do this, it’s so simple to circumvent the disappointment of the ending lifespan of the gesture of being given flowers. I can take those memories and I can freeze them, I can press them, I can stop them in a moment in time, and when they’re ready, I can frame them. That way the decorations on my wall will not only be a pretty sight to look at, they will be a reflection of a happy memory. One that I won’t ever have to forget as long as I have it. My own little innocent manipulation of time. I enjoy them for the life and they are meant to have. I’ll set them up in a place with lots of light, trim the stems diagonally and change the water consistently, everything you are meant to do to increase their lifespan and care for them. And then, to the point where they begin to weld end pass on from the adjuster to a memory, I’ll find a beautiful heavy book to press them into, and when they’re ready I frame trim, arrange, and frame them. As much frozen memory in time to me as a photograph. This is how I create my own little bit of happiness.

art
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