The Final Day – by Choncey Boddington

Cinzia DuBois —  July 19, 2013 — 1 Comment

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The studio floor is littered with sticky notes which have peeled away from the wall. White-tac is picked away, the draft pages come down. The studio is stripped bare of the Discovery season. The room is no longer perfumed by felt tip, the ink stains on our fingers are fading. It’s ever such a hallow feeling knowing that our days will no longer begin by writing a post stick note with a goal for the day and end with two further notes of what we shall ‘take away’ and ‘leave behind’ from our day. The publication hasn’t even begun, the festival is still a foetus tucked away in the womb of the library, and yet there’s a terribly sad sense of an ending. For four months we’ve been prepping for this two week period, four months of gathering together with individual daydreams of this summer period, four months of building expectations, four months of being clueless…

Capsule released the secret festival events, Morag transformed from a famous name on a website into a marvellous, inspiring physical artistic spirit, press releases bombarded us unpredictably. Reality hit like a tidal wave, terrifying yet refreshing. I’ve always had my toes dipped in the pool of arts and culture, but to be behind the scene allowed me to drown myself in it. I felt like a sailor of a great ship, pushing a great vessel out into the sea of the public, loaded with the precious slumbering cargo of artists’ imaginations. Writing about art flourished an intimacy with it that I’d never had the pleasure of experiencing. I felt I knew artists I’d never met, I felt I’d experienced exhibits which haven’t been completed, and when writing I stopped looking a the world through my eyes but through the public’s: the eyes of those whom shall experience the festival, see it, feel it. I cannot express how much I love the new library already. My heart broke when my local library was closed down, and every time a bookshop paints out its windows I, admittedly, have a *little cry (*a rather melodramatic sob). I don’t want to lose this library. I don’t want to see my community stripped of the right to free knowledge. I don’t want to see books being boxed up into a dirty lorry to be lost in a damp storage room. I want people to come to this library and love it. And I want them to keep coming, over and over again. I want families to go to the library every weekend like I did growing up. I want families to create memories there. I want everyone to recognise they can take knowledge into their own hands, grant themselves the education that government funding may have denied them. I want this so badly that I wrote with all the enthusiasm in my body. I wrote to help give the library the voice it needs to beckon people to its shelves. I wrote because I want people to discover and appreciate how incredible a library can be. I am built of books, I’m constructed of weekdays and weekends at my local bookstore, library and book festivals with my mother. The festival marks the birth of a library, a building which has the power to shape society merely by the minds who indulge themselves in it.

So I may feel distraught that the brochure has finished, that I’m no longer writing, that I’m no longer a sailor on a ship of a fantastical voyage. But I cannot help but feel proud of what we’ve all achieved. We’ve given the new library its first words which shall encourage the world to come and build themselves within. I owe my life to the library, the least I could do was help give it a voice for its new life.

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One response to The Final Day – by Choncey Boddington

  1. 

    What a lovely post, this child has a wonderful writing career ahead! My daughter [12] is an aspiring writer as well, and wrote something very similar about her last days at primary school– a big change for her.

    Well done!

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