Earlier this week someone stole the guest book out of the art exchange. It wasn’t just a matter of ripping the book off of the string. They took everything: the eye screw, the string, the pen, and the guest book.
When I discovered the guest book was stolen, I was in disbelief. Five days later and I’m still smarting from the theft.
The guest book had no monetary value, yet it held a wealth of sentimental value to me. Words of support, flash fiction, and drawings filled the book and it was pages away from being full to the brim. The first month of my wild art baby’s life was documented in that book and it’s gone. I can’t recreate that content.
Someone felt so strongly that they had to have the guest book, they detached it from the booth and took it. Their need for a book full of words of support to a stranger (me) drove them to theft. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. I don’t want to think about the fact that it could have been an act of vandalism and the guest book is lost to a filthy trash can or bush somewhere.
What saddens me the most, though, is that the theft goes against the spirit of the art exchange. A slice of magic was taken from my heart when the guestbook was stolen from the art exchange.