II. The shell
Where might it be now?
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✦ Part II. of a rippling triptych: on remember-things, enchantment and disillusionment. On connection, humanity and our shared memory, and the (in)accessibility of what we seek, yet sometimes (just not) manage to find.
The shell
Where might it be now?
With my eyes closed, I can picture it, almost feel it, cold against my ear: the sealophone. The shell of all shells. Where might it be now?
This search began, as it often does when I try to trace an object from my childhood, at my parents' house. My mother couldn't remember the shell — which surprised me. She did find another one though. A similar specimen, that also used to belong to my grandparents. Grandma might have brought it back from Australia? I studied the shell carefully, weighed it in my hand, pressed it gently against my ear. I wanted so much for it to be the shell, but I knew with absolute certainty: this is not it.
This almost-but-not-quite-specimen was coloured the wrong way around and felt like the negative of the shell. That one was brown with pale spots and fitted perfectly into the ‘70s interior of my grandparents' home: the setting of the original sea-murmur-shell-memory. The almost-but-not-quite-shell had a pale base covered in a great many brown spots.
Now I could dedicate a number of passages to the conversation my mother and I had. And to the fact that my mother doubted my findings — because she did. Was I really that convinced it wasn't the shell? But my mother and I are both very transparent about our memory; we don't trust it. So her doubts were my doubts.
Had the shell actually been that '70s? Does such a shell even exist?
I brought the almost-but-not-quite-shell home with me. There I found it a nice place, prominently in view. It was a beautiful object nonetheless. I studied its spots and looked into its origins: what creature had once dwelled inside?
The better I got acquainted with the object, the more convinced I became of my first reaction: this is not it. But I also felt: it might have been.
Meanwhile I kept writing my story and began to realise that my memory is actually our shared experience. In someone else’s memory the almost-but-not-quite-shell is undoubtedly the main character. And if not this particular specimen, then certainly a relative, a look-alike, an ancestor.
After an elaborate photo session and series of sketches — the almost-but-not-quite-shell turned out to be a gifted model — the object had managed to claim a prominent place in my memory too. Filed in the same drawer as the memory of the shell, but under a separate tab: the search for.
The shell itself remained untraceable. By then I had stopped the search. My passing doubts had completely faded, and I knew: the shell itself might be gone, but my wonderful reminiscence is not. In my memory it still exists.
But as it goes with memories: while you search for them desperately, the answer remains just out of reach. When you step away from it, your memory quietly keeps on searching. Until, often at an unexpected moment, the answer pops up, seemingly out of nowhere.
And that’s exactly what happened with the shell. We found it. In the perfect place: my nephew's room. There it was, laying on a shelf full of treasures (a kind of cabinet of curiosities) surrounded by shark teeth, ammonites, beautiful stones and other collectibles. And it was just as I remembered. What a relief.
My sister confirmed my findings. My brother responded delighted: 'Yes! We used to hold it against our ear.' I had clearly not started in the right place. My starting point was at the top of the family tree, but the search ended with the youngest generation. That the shell played a leading role in my sister's and brother's memory too, I could have known. We do share DNA, our childhood and grandparents. My mother remembers a great deal, but not everything. Our grandparents were her father and mother; the same people, but in a different role.
I borrowed it for a while, the shell. We have one more photo and sketch session planned. After that, it’ll move back to its new home.
At times we can rely on our memory, yet at other occasions we cannot at all. It’s impossible to determine whether it’s a case of ‘can’ or ‘cannot’ in the moment. And so my conclusion is: I never trust my memory. Until it turns out to be trustworthy for once.
⁂
✶ Series:
Shellter – On sheltering, shell murmur, and the body as a temporary home.
✶ This story unfolds as a shell-serial in three parts:
I. The sealophone - A kind of tiny time machine
II. De shell - Where might it be now?
III. The source - 20.000 leagues under copyright
✦ Images 3. and 4. are from the precious matters personal collection: now part of this growing archive. A lifetime of small moments, gathered with care: fragments of a soft universe in the making.
✧ Originally written in Dutch by Merel Slootheer. Translated with care and intuition by Blackbird Ditchlord.
Full source references for this trilogy can be found under the afterword →
Everything here grows slowly,
with care, in my own rhythm.
𓆑 𓂃 ˖ ݁.