The Freedom to Differ
I'm not quite sure where to start this post. My wife and I recently took a short break in Cádiz, Spain, staying at La Casa del Cónsul, an old merchant's house in the heart of the old town, close to the main port.
I can't sleep. Not through insomnia, exactly, but because the hamster wheels in my head refuse to slow down. If anything, they seem to be turning faster and faster.
The house is run by a couple whose outlook on life I find quite refreshing. They appear to follow their own path rather than being swayed by the norm, irrespective of how far it might differ from current trends. The boutique apart-hotel is, in fact, their home, and its décor is decidedly individual. Each guest suite reflects what they describe as their own style, guided by their artistic sensibilities rather than any particular fashion.
The property is filled with an eclectic mix of modernist and classical sculpture and paintings. Some of it, in my view, doesn't always sit comfortably together. But perhaps that's the point. It is their space, their taste and their expression of how they choose to live.
I wake at three-thirty and stare at the sparsely decorated ceiling, punctuated by a stainless-steel circulating fan. My four-poster bed creaks with every toss and turn as I unsuccessfully try to drop off again. A crack in the heavy timber shutters allows a faint glow from the street lighting to find its way into the room.
It's surprising how much you begin to notice when the rest of the world appears to have stopped. Things you hadn't previously seen or heard suddenly become intriguing. The quiet seems to grow louder, and you find yourself wondering whether you're hearing things that aren't really there.
Trying, unsuccessfully, not to wake my wife, I get dressed and make my way downstairs to the kitchen. It's time for a coffee and, as is my usual practice, to put some thoughts into my notebook.
I'd considered going up to the rooftop terrace, a quiet and tranquil space, generously planted in the way so many Mediterranean gardens are. But it feels a little too cool at this early hour, so I settle myself in the kitchen instead.
I'm surrounded by the owners' art. Almost every available space has been filled, yet there is just enough room for each piece to be appreciated. It's a real assault on the senses, accompanied by the low hum of an apparently never-ending smooth jazz soundtrack.
The sweeping curves of the staircase, decorative stone columns, and stone and marble floors all add to the experience. There's even a small indoor fountain in the reception hall, home to a couple of large goldfish. It was the gentle burbling of that water I could hear from my room, one floor above.
Having started this piece without knowing quite where it was heading, I'm still no wiser. But perhaps that doesn't matter. I simply don't want to forget the experience, or lose the feelings and thoughts it has stirred. There's always the possibility that, by morning, the moment will have passed and the whole thing will seem like a dream I might never quite be able to recall.
It's now five o'clock. The house and its other guests are still asleep, yet I've been sitting here for hours without feeling the least bit tired. My mind has wandered back to the owners and their approach to life. To me, they seem to be leaders rather than followers.
How often have we visited somewhere and encountered the same things, arranged in much the same way, reflecting much the same tastes? There's a certain comfort in familiarity, of course, but I wonder what we lose when we continually look to others for our sense of what is acceptable.
I find myself wanting to be a little more like these two. To follow my own path, to make choices that reflect my own sensibilities, and to worry a little less about whether those choices sit comfortably with everyone else. The freedom to differ.
Perhaps the distinction between leading and following isn't really about being different for the sake of it. Nor is it about deliberately setting oneself apart. It may simply be about having the confidence to recognise what matters to us, and the courage to pursue it without constantly seeking approval.
After all, in art, as in life, individuality isn't something that can be prescribed. We can be influenced, inspired and challenged by the work of others, but at some point we must decide what we ourselves believe in.
At eight o'clock, I'm still sitting in the same place, listening to the smooth jazz and the gentle murmur of the fountain. I've almost been transported into another world. At least the hamster wheels have finally slowed, and my mind feels a little calmer.
I still haven't had that coffee I came downstairs for.
Perhaps I'll manage a better night's sleep later.
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