I am in the final stages of getting my studio organized so I can actually work in it, instead of just throwing stuff up there to become one with the chaos.
I was in an almost trance-like state as things seemed to move themselves into unexpected new arrangements. A painting I did last summer did not want to go where I initially intended and insisted on a wall I was sure it wouldn't fit on. But I listened and it proved me beautifully wrong.
The space feels so clear. Crystal. And I can't wait to actually begin working up there again.
It occurred to me that the room is a container for me. Filled with containers. And in fact, all the work I've been doing over the years is somehow related to concepts of containers. Our whole existence in this body, on this planet, in this time and place is a container. We search for containment, balance our worlds between breaking through one container into another. Our containers are of varied size and dimension. Some too small, others too large. Our worlds are built of containers within containers like the stacking Russian dolls.
Now that everything is organized in clear plastic containers, I can see all my materials, get my hands on what I'm looking for more easily. Actually get to what I need so I can work out the ideas that bubble up endlessly.
I threw out a lot to get to this place. I had to. I've been collecting all sorts of things for so many years. I think I still have post cards from when I lived in London 30 years ago. But I'm hoping now that I know where they are, I'll figure out what to do with them.
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