The Magic of Closeness
By Will Ashon.
I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to be doing here, or saying, or why, but I’m pretty certain it’s not meant to be a begging letter. That’s how these things work, isn’t it? That I give you something, even if it’s only yet another report of the trials and tribulations of lockdown, which you search through as if looking for a fortune in tea leaves, in the hope that something connects or means something: a flash of recognition, some emphatic nodding, a stifled snort of laughter, that sort of thing. I’m not meant to be taking, that’s all wrong. But then maybe everything is all wrong. (And is it just me, but are reports on the trials and tribulations of lockdown becoming almost as boring as being in lockdown itself? In fact, to the extent that they’re in any way an accurate reflection of lockdown, shouldn’t they be exactly as boring?).
For the last 18 months, most of my writing projects have revolved around meeting face-to-face with a variety of individuals, one at a time, to talk, then taking those conversations and making collaged pieces out of what’s been said to me. I’ve hitchhiked up and down the country, met with seekers of asylum, chatted to women of all ages about art, been told about the death of a friend by a homeless man, and much more. But currently I’m stuck, like the rest of you, in my house and I can’t imagine how long it’ll be before, for instance, someone will stop their car and let me in just because I’ve stuck out a thumb.
I’ve been trying to think why the act of meeting face-to-face was important in the first place. After all, in a collage of direct, reported speech, you’d think this contact would barely be visible. Certainly, there are no descriptions to be had of sitting down at a table and talking, none of the authentication processes we find in non-fiction, the mortar we place around the bricks of speech to add atmosphere or veracity. But it was visible, somehow. It is. It’s what animates the whole thing. It’s a matter of intimacy — the fact that you can reach out and touch each other, whether or not you do, the reality of being able to look someone in the eye, whether or not you do, and for that act to be unmediated by a major tech company, unmonetised. It’s my belief that the reader picks up on this intimacy, even if they don’t realise what it is they’re noticing. Intimacy is the key, all the way through. It’s the magic of the written word, after all, to make it feel as if the people I spoke to are talking directly to you (and only you).
How do you create intimacy, that magic of closeness, when you can’t meet with anyone? The solution, I decided, is to ask people to talk about something intimate and then let them choose their answer alone, just them and the recorder, crouched somewhere in a room, locked inside a flat or house. That’s why I’ve been putting out requests for people to record and send me a “secret”. Or, to expand on what that might mean, “I’m not really looking for confessions, so much as intimacies (although in the end it’s up to you how to interpret it). It might be something you remember from your childhood, a story about your grandma, the reason why you like a particular colour, something about your favourite food, a memory of one of your children — or that time you did something awful at work and never told anyone. As long as it’s something which is personal enough that it speaks about you — and only you — in a very specific way and preferably isn’t widely known. (I only really call it a ‘secret’ because ‘intimacies’ sounds, well, too intimate!).”
It took almost two weeks for the first response to appear in my Inbox and I thought the whole thing was doomed before I’d even begun. I’d started with people I knew and if there’s one person you’re less likely to tell a secret to than a stranger, it’s an acquaintance or a family member. Or a writer. Since that initial recording, though, more have arrived in a steady trickle, aided in part by putting a recording function on my website. And the results have been stunning. There’s something so charged about sharing a secret and this seems to be amplified at a time of lockdown. Perhaps the telling represents a kind of freedom, an escape from something which has held you stuck in the house of guilt or regret, a mental or moral lockdown. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Certainly, though, our current situation cuts through everything that people choose to tell me, sometimes directly, sometimes in more subtle, slippery ways.
Anyway, the begging letter. I need more secrets. I understand that it’s a big ask, which is why I’ve recorded one of my own, to give you an idea of what I might be looking for and to make the whole thing feel more like an exchange. But I do need help. It’s a collective project, though also — necessarily — an anonymous one. The truth is that there’s nothing in it for you, directly, except to contribute to something which might be beautiful or funny or moving or interesting. And which may well fail to be any of those. That’s the risk and hence also the magic. It’s about trying to get close. Or at the very least, closer.
You can read more about the project, listen to Will Ashon’s secret, and then, if you wish, anonymously record your own secret <a href= “https://www.yourwordsnevermine.net/secrets”>here</a>.
@willashon
