As I came out of my long, reflective, I-don't-need-to-make-any-images period, I found myself in the Chamber Street Museum, here in Edinburgh.
I used to go to this museum a lot when I was a child; eight, nine, ten years old. The museum, along with my father's books on Crete and Phoenicia, set the path of my life. It sowed a seed of fascination, as I copied Egyptian friezes and hung out with the boa constrictor and the skeletons on the third floor.
What were those symbols of the past, undecipherable forms scratched onto stone?
Scratched into stone. Shapes scratched into stone. Lost meanings, scratched into stone.
Now the Picts, here in the land of my birth.
Picts/animals, like human/peacocks.... birds, dreams, horns, fear, celebration, propitiation ....