The Stolen
I didn’t even realize something was taken from my car at first. And when I did I couldn’t believe it. Then came sadness: all those pieces I barely got to know myself, now gone. I am left with a gallery full of photographs and no physical objects. Then came the self-blame when it struck me that I haven’t locked the car. And then a whole kaleidoscope of thoughts and reactions over the next days and weeks.
Since most pieces were meant for the Loneliness collection, I suddenly had a whole new angle on that emotion to go with all others. In this little virtual series I leave snapshots of my experience with every piece. In essence this is asort of a diary of three weeks of my life which I hope you will find interesting
As I look at the papers careleslly thrown on the front seat, and cannot avoid the fact any longer: the car was broken into. First comes disgust. That unique kind of it that you get when someone went through your things. Touched and moved and took away not only objects but also your sense of peace.
As I look over my belongings one by one, I begin to feel releif, because most are still here.
And then I realise that they took the backpack with the bowls I just photographed. And in that moment it’s not the ceramics I am crushed about. It’s the little black backpack they were in, the one that my son got at summer camp, with his name written on the inside in green permanent marker. That smudged name is what gets me the most
Anger is a funny one for me. Somewhere deep I feel angry at myself for not locking the car. There is definitely a portion reserved for my partner who insisted on switching cars: my car locks automatically, if only I had taht one… Yet in those first hours I can’t find anger at whoever did it. I know it should be there, but it simply isn’t.
I can be very good at putting things away for a while. So I do. I walk to the coffee shop, and then to a donut shop. People meeting in front of the church, parents shaking toys in their kids’ faces while they drink coffee, dog walkers of course.
On my way back there is a woman across the street. She is calling me names. She is calling everyone names. In the end of her speech she screams that she will never forget, this will stay with her even after she is long dead.
How exhausting, carrying something with you for that long. What would be worth it? Definitely not a car burglary.
They have taken: eight teabowls wrapped in brown paper in a cheap backpack and a large unconventionally looking vase in a white mesh grocery bag.
As thefts go, this definitely is a puzzling one.
I am enjoying this taste of absurdity. I play into it, creating more stories.
Scenario No.1: At this very moment there is a group of thieves sipping green tea from my teabowls, discussing the latest rumors of the criminal world. Or perhaps their preferences of chawans
Scenario No.2: Whoever took my pieces becomes completely transformed by them and decides to turn his or her - lets not be sexist here - life around, starting an existence of service and contemplation. Preferably through something ceramic-related
Scenario No.3: One day, many years from now, at a house of exeptional artistic taste I will suddenly recognize my vase or a tea bowl, loved and treasured. I like to imagine that I will not reveal that they belong to me, keeping this delicious secret to myself to savor and play with
I tell you about the theft. You ask me about the details and finish with something along the lines of "It’s nothing, don’t get upset” . But I am upset.
And now the anger comes. Now there is no searching for it. I am definitely angry at you, and finally, finally! I am angry at the thief.
How phylosophical that it was the “Loneliness” collection they stole from. I am flooded with all shades and tastes of loneliness in the aftermath.
One that came right after, when I was the only one who knew.
A different kind when I was looking through the photos I took. Some of them didin’t come out how I wanted them, and now it’s impossible to fix that. These unsuccessful pictures felt a special kind of lonely.
The tea bowls themselves of course: who knew where they ended up? Did someone ever think them special like they were special to me?
Also, the remaining teabowls somehow feel a bit lonely, like there is a palpable empty space next to them.
There is a touch of guilt to this whole situation as I realize I miss some pieces more than others. As I dig deeper, I am astounded to realize that there is one I am glad to have gone.