I will work until my mind finds peace, even if that means I will work for a very long time.
Shaker Brother Ricardo Belden, making wooden oval boxes in a workshop at the Hancock Shaker Village, near Pitts field, Massachusetts, 1935.
It’s not easy to throw things away. not for some personalities. The ugly fabric — there might be a use for it. The sandals that don’t look as fresh as they once did — maybe I’ll wear them on a rainy day when I don’t want to ruin my new ones. Single bed sheets — I don’t have a single bed anymore, but the unfitted sheets might be useful for something.
The problem is that throwing things away has so many implications. It can mean you no longer have a purpose for the thing you are throwing away, or you are disturbed by the emotions you associate with it, or maybe you realize it was a mistake to buy it. Wasteful, careless in decision making, someone who makes mistakes — none of these is easy to admit about ourselves. Is it perhaps our refusal to admit error that keeps us from throwing something away?
We live in an environment of our own making, but at some point we outgrow it. Perhaps the dresser from our childhood still occupies a prominent spot in our bedroom. Maybe our wardrobe is filled with outmoded representations of who we are; have we missed the fact that those pants are no longer flattering? Mistakes can weigh heavily on the soul.
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Standing In The Stream
I had also become enamored with the beauty of a man — it was always a man — standing in a rushing stream about mid-thigh, sunlight winking off the whitewater, casting nearly in slow-motion, over and over again, the long thin line whipping back and forth, catching the light, before barely alighting atop the water.
The Old Barn
The photograph above, by Jeffrey Stoner, is part of Still Point Art Gallery’s current exhibition, Solitude (see more images from this show on the previous pages).
Sea Foam And Clyde
Behind the house he hears the rustling of grasses that shine when the wind blows. The blades lift and turn and catch the sun and glitter like tinsel. He stands and sees the house. If you squint maybe it does look like sea foam.
The Restaurant De La Sirène At Asnières
The Restaurant de la Sirène at Asnières is crumbling; you can see it clearly when you stand up close, the bricks are split with age, the boards are warped with weather like the damaged spine of an old man. The building is a decaying, moldy monument to the men who look upon it.
The Art Of Solitude
Solitude isn’t loneliness; it’s different. With solitude, you belong to yourself. With loneliness, you belong to no one.
Wendy's Room
If sleep, a noise could reach in. Drag you out. Not sleep. No noise. No silence even. All walls sealed. Unconsciousness — the word she couldn’t think of twelve years ago. Except here she was. The mind watching itself. And wasn’t that the definition of consciousness? An ultramarine impasto. As if she knew brushstrokes. Odd, because in this life, Wendy Kochman had been an amateur violist. A failed academic and a mother. Never a painter.
On Throwing Things Away
I will work until my mind finds peace, even if that means I will work for a very long time.
