I participated in a storytelling competition when I was a kid. Before the end of class, my teacher would ask all participants to come in front of the class to tell the story they selected (memorised). So I did. I spoke with a masculine heroic tone. I used hands to show how big the monster was…I lost. I thought I would never tell story again.
Well, it never really ended after all. I wrote a story about a day in a Michelin-starred kitchen. I started Pastry Union, sharing stories about my love-hate relationship with chocolate. And one day, I came across a very interesting storyteller: Béatrice Coron. With scissors and paper, she creates stories of different cities. Listening to her stories of candycity, of heaven and hell, of creation and endless imagination, I am in awe.
Then, there is Terunobu Fujimori’s story of a teahouse built too high, Takasugi-an. The teahouse, which is also a treehouse, reminds me of a childhood dream to live among the birds and leafy trees. I’m not an engineer, so I’m not bothered by the stability of this structure. His “ultimate personal architecture” is utterly poetic.
Stories are everywhere. Why did children need to tell story only about fairies, monster or animal? If I were a kid again, perhaps, I would like to tell a story about Sorry, I ate all the cake. I would stick my finger inside the cake to claim that “it’s mine”. And then I would lick my finger and dig a bigger hole on the cake. Now no one dares to eat it. Again and again until it’s all gone. What’s yours?