ROOM

"When we got married, Dad said, I can't manage money. Can you? And I said, yup. So I've always done it."
"Hmm."
"Because that's how I was raised, you see, with my mother."
"Yeah."
"To be frugal."
"Mmm."
"Maybe now I'm too frugal!" And she laughed.

Maybe. The women at work are too frugal, if you ask me. Bless their souls, but we are drowning. We are up to our ears in art supplies, which really means we are up to about our waists in art supplies and up to everywhere else in hoarded materials that we've reasoned could potentially one day be some sort of art supply maybe.

 My mom's room, my aunt's room, my grandparents' room, my room.

My mom's room, my aunt's room, my grandparents' room, my room.

I have been hell-bent on tidying up and getting organised at work, so please understand that I am telling the whole and real truth when I say that I died a small death today as 4 garbage bags filled with clothes and linens and a big brown box of jewellery made their way into the studio. I swear to god, why. But then, the keeping of things is somehow sacred.

My family has kept this room, my mom's room, my aunt's room, my grandparents' room, and now today, it is my room. It boasts years of wear and tear. It has the residue of family, its walls thick with the lacquer of generations. It is a room that has been kept, and so it is bestowed that cumulative and peculiar sanctity that comes from keeping things.