In between real-time tweeting and Facebook updates, you’ll be glad to know that whilst on a recent fam trip to the Alps, I found some time to fit in a little ski-time. And it was whilst being sat on a glorified button getting dragged up a mountain, that I realised going skiing is a bit like stepping into a creative dream world.
A ski lift becomes a scenic drag through a wonderland: mountains covered by fresh white duvets hiding secrets to be revealed in spring; icing sugar spread thick round the edge of a Christmas gateau or lightly dusted on top of a peak; whipped meringue is ready to crunch; cotton wool is ready to pull apart; and lumps of marshmallow are ready to squeeze. All the while set against neutral colourways of powder blues and pebble greys, and all seen through a lens blinded by glitter falling seemingly out from nowhere.
Just as your succumbing to the dream and stillness, you’re suddenly jolted awake by a blast of contrast and rigidity: the harsh carving of skis and boards through untouched snow; the poker straight “cord” marks left by a jet-black metallic snowplough; the rhythmic grind of a chair lift transporting a never ending stream of clashing coloured skiers. Neon pinks, oranges, reds, yellows and greens arranged in spots, stripes and checks sit alongside one another like paint spattered at a blank canvas, unfazed and inattentive to the wider neutral palette.
Hard, soft and make-believe seemingly co-exist, shaken up together in a little glacial bubble, a million miles from reality.