Little Sparta

Ian Hamilton Finlay died last Monday. He was a sacred figure for us, a touch of creativity mixed with disorder: poet, philosopher, artist… I visited his garden in Stonypath, up there where he lived in the Pentlands.
I personally have a deep enjoyment of land art, and find in it a certain intimacy, an organic relationship with nature, both tender and nostalgic, coming from an intense emotional dimension. Certain works remind us of Eden, others of the magic mirror that changes our captive images, the opening of new knowledge… In this means of expression I see a true rite of passage between the cultural state and the natural state, and any further intellectual step is no less sensitive to it.
I had the experience of this a long time ago, when a French friend invited me to accompany him to create a piece that would bring together the mineral and the radiant : he had chosen, then precisely aligned, smooth, round white stones in an exact pattern, like sleeping bodies lying over one another. We waited for the sunset to bathe them in a pink light, then for nightfall, that left us blind. Finally, the moonlight came and, one by one along its night-time track, lit up those stones, giving them a legendary touch, a fugitive colour fallen from the sky. At its height the full moon revealed the integral nature of this path of light.
We stayed just like that for hours, silently watching the apparition. My friend took photos while the phenomenon was occurring, but his emotion stayed as fervent as ever.
At dawn we went home. He made some coffee to heat us up, and we spoke about this and that. Life took on its normal route as the day went on.
I thanked him for letting me be present at this miracle, and I admired him for being able to create it.