People often ask me: Finrod, have you ever tried scrapbooking?
More than that, I tried to do it willingly.
And that, as it now seems to me, was the first mistake.
It all began quite innocently. They told me, āFinrod, it will be beautiful. You love memory, songs, ancient stories, elegant things, manuscripts, golden patterns, leaves, stars, melancholy, and everything that can be preserved for ages. Scrapbooking is perfect for you.ā
You must admit, it sounded convincing.
I do love memory. I love carefully preserving what might otherwise dissolve into time: letters, fragments of songs, pressed leaves, small signs of great days, traces of journeys that look like trifles from the outside but contain entire ages within.
So when they laid out paper, ribbons, stickers, lace, stamps, ink, scissors, tiny wooden shapes, dried flowers, gold foil, and a jar of glitter before me, I thought:
āYes. This is mine. Now I shall create something worthy of the halls of Nargothrond.ā
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting at the table covered in glue, with glitter on my face, a piece of decorative tape in my hair, and the expression of an Elf who had survived more than one war but had met a true enemy for the first time.
Its name was: double-sided tape.
I do not know who invented that thing, but I suspect he served the darkness.
At first glance, double-sided tape seems useful. Modest. Almost noble. It does not draw attention to itself, does not shine suspiciously, does not announce itself like a ring of power. It simply lies on the table and seems to say, āI shall help you attach this little frame neatly.ā
First you try to peel off the protective layer. Then the protective layer refuses to come off. Then it comes off, but sticks to your finger. Then the tape itself sticks to another finger. Then you try to free the first finger with the second, and now both fingers have formed an alliance with the tape against you.
After a while, you are no longer the King of Nargothrond, nor the son of Finarfin, nor the friend of Men, nor a singer capable of contending in songs of power.
You are simply a creature whispering, āRelease me.ā
And the tape does not release you.
The next mistake was glitter.
They told me, āFinrod, add a little sparkle. It will suit you.ā
First of all, I have quite enough radiance as it is.
Second of all, āa little glitterā is a lie the world tells itself.
There is no such thing as āa little glitter.ā There is only the moment when you open the jar, and the next moment when the glitter has already seized power over the entire room.
It was on the paper. On the table. On my sleeves. On my cloak. On my eyebrows. On the cup. On someone elseās conscience. On the memories of the First Age. I suspect several specks of glitter found their way into songs that have not even been written yet.
I tried to shake them off.
They only shone more brightly.
I tried to blow them away.
They scattered with the triumph of conquerors.
I tried to preserve my dignity.
That proved hardest of all.
Then they gave me decorative scissors.
āThese can make a beautiful wavy edge,ā they said.
I looked at the scissors. The scissors looked at me.
I thought, āI have seen blades forged by great masters. I have held weapons whose song was clearer than the morning star. Surely I can handle scissors?ā
Oh, how pride can speak with the voice of confidence.
The first edge did not turn out wavy, but tragic.
The second was philosophical.
The third resembled a map of lands where no one should ever settle.
I tried to straighten it. Then I tried to straighten what I had straightened. Then I tried to save the page with decorative tape. Then the decorative tape stuck crookedly. Then I decided that perhaps crookedness was an artistic choice.
That, I believe, is how many civilizations begin to fall: with the phrase, āIt was meant to look like that.ā
Composition deserves a separate mention.
I thought it would be simple. After all, I know how to perceive harmony. I know how balance sounds in a song, how light falls upon stone, how the lines of arches guide the eye toward the center of a hall. I built cities, after all.
But scrapbooking does not obey the laws of architecture.
You place a photograph on the page. Beside it, a leaf. Above it, a frame. On the side, a small inscription. It seems good. Then you add a piece of lace. Now it is strange. You add a golden twig. Now everything looks solemn, but troubling. You add a star sticker. Now the page seems about to proclaim a prophecy.
You move it three millimeters.
And there you sit over a sheet of paper and realize that the fate of an entire composition depends on three millimeters.
I have seen battles with less tension.
Glue deserves special mention as well.
Glue is a substance in which a particular form of chaos is imprisoned.
At first there is too little of it, and nothing holds. Then you add a little more, and the page begins to look as though it has been wept over. Then you try to remove the excess, and the glue smears. Then dust sticks to it. Then your finger sticks to it. Then a little golden leaf sticks to your finger.
And so you sit there, raising your hand with a decorative element solemnly attached to it, and think:
āPerhaps this is a sign.ā
The problem is that in scrapbooking, anything can be a sign. A pressed leaf is a sign of memory. A scrap of fabric is a sign of the road. A glue stain is a sign that you are tired. A crooked inscription is a sign of humility. A photograph accidentally glued upside down is a sign that you need rest.
Because, like any Elf with a rich history and an insufficiently developed instinct for self-preservation, I decided: if I have begun, I must bring it to beauty.
I chose the theme: āThe Light We Preserve.ā
It sounds worthy, does it not?
I wanted to make a page about friendship, loyalty, memory, and those small moments for which it is worth passing through darkness. The page was meant to have soft golden tones, green leaves, delicate lines, a little silver, a few handwritten words, and the feeling of quiet hope.
After an hour, the page looked as though quiet hope had collided with an artisanās shop during an earthquake.
I cut. I glued. I peeled things off. I glued them again. I looked from a distance. I looked up close. I turned the page. I doubted. I added a small detail. I regretted it. I hid it under another detail. I pretended that this made it deeper.
At one point I said the words:
āI need more texture.ā
After that, I should have been stopped.
Additional layers of paper appeared. Ribbon appeared. Some miniature flowers appeared. A frame appeared that I had not planned. An inscription appeared that I rewrote seven times because my handwriting suddenly decided to become dramatic.
And, of course, the glitter returned.
By the end of the evening, I was covered in the marks of battle. Paper scraps lay upon the table like fallen warriors. The glue stood there looking victorious. The scissors were silent, but I could feel their judgment. Glitter shone everywhere like stars over the site of a catastrophe.
And before me lay the page.
Clearly overloaded in one corner.
With one frame that I had not glued entirely straight, but had already decided to love as it was.
Not because it was flawless. No. It was farther from flawlessness than certain oath-bound relatives are from common sense.
It was beautiful because everything remained within it: my intention, my struggle, my exhaustion, my stubbornness, my laughter, my failure, my attempt to make memory visible.
And perhaps that was when I finally understood scrapbooking.
It is not about the perfect page.
It is about taking the chaos of memories and trying to give it form.
You take a day that might have vanished and say to it: āNo. You shall remain.ā
You take a little ticket, a pressed flower, a letter, a photograph, a scrap of ribbon, a stray phrase ā and turn them into proof that life was not only a sequence of great events, battles, decisions, and losses.
It was also a cup of tea on the table.
Laughter at the wrong moment.
A leaf picked up from the road.
A speck of glitter that you find on yourself three weeks later and, for some reason, smile.
So yes, I tried scrapbooking.
I lost part of my dignity to glitter.
I realized that decorative scissors require more wisdom than some royal councils.
But in the end, I made a page of memory.
And if you look at it in soft evening light, squint a little, and do not examine the lower left corner too closely, it truly does resemble a small song.
Perhaps I will try again.
But first I need to wash my hands.
And, I think, one of my councillors, who merely happened to pass by but now sparkles too.
Scrapbooking is a dangerous art.
But, like all true magic of memory, it leaves traces.
