Well, there are some things brewing...they have nothing and everything to do with this.
We adopted these chairs that have been in my father's side of the family for an undefined number of years (maybe decades...maybe generations). We took them from my great-grandfather's camp. They just happened to be unused, the perfect colors and sentimentally loaded already. Perfect.
Slowly, we complete our home...one little detail at a time.
I remember the first book I ever loved. I remember hearing the sound of the paper against itself, I remember the way the ink would smudge a little on my little 7 year old fingertips, and the smell of the glue, the paper, the ink. I would fall asleep with the book open over my nose, resting on my little face. I remember my fingerprints on the shiny paper cover. I remember wondering who this strange dead man was that wrote this thing, object, idea, picture, feeling that I possessed. I remember when the littlest things, like the color of the book cover, were magical. I remember the way the story inspired me to draw pictures, to illustrate...and I remember the realization that it was not an image, but a feeling I was trying to "illustrate" and I found that my little pencil failed me again and again. How I was never satisfied. Because this feeling had a smell and a temperature and sounds, not just a look. I drew packs of wolves, running. I drew them running toward me, running past me, around me, away from me. And the trees and the snowy ground with their prints and the right moon-lighting. I was romantic. I still am. It never represented what I meant it to. I think these sketches are still in my parents' basement. I'm still 7. And I'm still frustrated with this challenge of limited dimensions and with the limits of the physical world. With material. But I think when I was little, I used to try a lot harder to get it right. I used to better believe that I could do it.