I Dreamt of Something Lost recently won the main category of the New Media Writing Prize – the Chris Meade Memorial Main Prize. I haven’t really known what to do with myself since getting this news. I’ve spent days in a state of periodic excitement and incredulity, of course. I’ve thought about what to do with the prize money, I’ve splurged on a meal out and a cocktail. I’ve gone through all the motions of celebration. The idea was that this blog post would be a more thoughtful acceptance speech than I managed on the night, but I find myself still unsure what to make of this win.
It always surprises me when people connect emotionally with I Dreamt of Something Lost. Making it was such an odd process – fumbling my way through so many fields that were completely new to me. Coding. Creative research. Writing about ‘my practice’, explaining my artistic intent. Usually, all I have is a theme or set of themes – and my thinking on them sharpens throughout the process, but the details of any ‘artistic intent’ are a pleasant surprise after the fact. Besides which, IDoSL felt like such a strange project. At once ambitious and understated. Deeply personal, yet full of events I had never experienced myself. The emotions were all there, but I was approaching at strange angles, feeling them askance. It often felt impossible that anyone but me would truly get it.
‘Do you get it?’ It’s a stupid, impossible ask. The thing you get from my art will likely bear very little resemblance to what I wanted you to get, because I am me and you are you. I won't have a clue what you get unless you tell me – and even then, how can I ever know for sure? There’s a very transactional sense to all this, like you’re coming to my art and leaving with a shiny emotional truth. Like something’s been produced.
I don’t like thinking about art this way, but I sense some truth in it. A while ago, I spoke to a close friend about the idea of ‘consuming’ media. ‘Content’ and ‘content consumption’ have both come under fire, as phrases, for their role in relegating art to an undifferentiated commercial slurry. Neither of us liked ‘content’, but both of us liked ‘consumption’. Art as nourishment, as sustenance. Art as calories. Art as organic matter, taken in and turned to fuel. Art as necessary for life. Art as an experience, and then as part of you.
I mentioned going for a celebratory meal out, earlier. We had Mexican. A portion so large I took half of it home in a box. The restaurant was loud and busy. I watched a child at the next table over plopping ice into her drink. When the food arrived, it was so good I took in nothing else. I functionally blacked out until I’d had my fill – nothing but the taste exploding on my tongue. And then – and then – I felt full.
That’s what I want for the reader of my work. That’s the thing I want people to get. And, well, evidently some people did. It feels good, knowing that. It makes me glad.
(Thank you, once again, to the NMWP judges and to everyone at UiB and to my partner and to my friends.)