“People see fogs, not because they are fogs, but because poets and painters have taught them the mysterious loveliness of such effects. There may have been fogs for centuries in London. I dare say there were. But no one saw them, and so we know nothing about them.
Fogs did not exist until Art had invented them.” (Oscar Wilde)
It was 6.30 am in the morning of the 1st November. I opened my eyes and got out of bed after the fifth buzz of an alarm clock. I began my regular morning routine, starting with a quick workout and the usual huge breakfast I make for both of us day after day. Looking out of the window, I noticed the unusual brightness which enveloped the streets in front of the house I live in. I realised that the first day of November brought us not only the bitter sweet notion of nature’s dormant state, but also thrust us forcefully into a thick white cloud of serenity and yearnings that often come when everything falls into an inevitable sleep.
I realised, that this was the day when I had to fulfil a promise I made (to myself) the night before. Just the night before I was browsing photos of London covered in heavy fog, thinking that I have to go out in the fog the next time it strikes. And it did, the morning after.
You know, just then I tried to understand what it is about London’s fog that fascinates people. I remembered what Oscar Wilde said: “Fogs did not exist until Art had invented them”.
I think it’s not just the fog, but any natural phenomena that fascinates people. And something so fascinating must have an artistic explanation. No, not even an explanation, but artistic expression, mystery and romanticism, all of which allow us to look at the brighter side of any phenomena that may somehow interrupt our daily routines and habits. Just like the fog did to me in the morning of the 1st November, forcing me to get out into the mysterious blindness of its being.
As I walked down the river Thames, overlooking London’s iconic sights and places that attract enormous crowds of tourists, I inhaled the peacefulness of a damp morning air and got lost in tranquility of empty riverside. I inhaled the smell of late autumn, of leaves that were gracefully descending onto the ground, knowing that they will never find their place on that tree ever again, interchanged later in spring by their younger counterparts.
The true art of fog is in the moment, which you have to seize and savour before it turns into a fragile memento of being, into a dream, which mingles like the tiny droplets on the palm of your hand and in the air around you, obscuring the vision of time. Its true beauty is in the now, in the current which becomes a moment of past every second you spend absorbing the phenomena with your whole being.
There is no other meaning of fog other than art. As the meaning given by art serves us the greatest purpose.