text and images
I have a beautiful diary. Handmade, purple leather, delicate, Italian. I carry it with me everywhere.
It is the most beautiful journal you can imagine.
In it I collect words. Tales. Sketches. Notes. Lists of this and that. A life.
I must have had a hundred different diaries though my 50+ life. Many of them gathered in a wooden cabinet in my studio.
I sat at the airport yesterday, waiting for the plane. Early as always. I am never late to anything. I don´t have the guts.
I had checked in a small over night suitcase. Between my feet I had my backpack. With a water bottle. A couple of books. Diary. Pencil case.
And all the "stuff" a women always carry with her.
Just in case.
And my MacBook Pro.
From the backpack I picked up the purple journal. And a pen.
The journal is the most beautiful one you can imagine. But is is not very practical. The sown pages are hard to open flat, this makes it difficult to write on them. My handwriting suffers from this. The written pages don´t look like I want them to look. I write less. It doesn´t give me so much pleasure anymore.
From the backpack the MacBook is crying my name.
"write in me instead of your most beautiful diary in the world. Much more practical. Make a folder called journal. Fill it with your life. In beautiful fonts."
I closed the diary. Was about to pick out the MacBook. Then changing my mind.
The 50 years´habit of writing a handwritten diary can´t be changed just there and then.
The art of journal writing.
I am in the process of counting the buttons (do you say than in English?) wether to buy a Kindle or not. I will miss the feel of the book as it rest in my fingers, the smell of the ink. Even more I will miss browsing the bookshops.
Buying one book. Two. Three.
But may be for travels?
The old fashioned me, the lover of traditions.......am I changing?
For the good?
Photos: Oslo yesterday