I suppose all the objects on the six glass shelves could be collectively regarded as an archive- an autobiographical archive- as most periods of my life are represented there. But the majority of it can only be read as such by me. My children would have a different perspective based on their childhood memories, their knowledge of me and their own experiences and taste. My friends would have another take on the display, and strangers, yet another view, and yet the objects remain the same.
The image is of a pebble picked up on a beach more than thirty five years ago. It is barely one inch in height, it is a flint nodule and is worthless to everyone but me.