I’ve been thinking about things. Physical objects. How much I love particular tools and materials. A fragment of lace, one bead, my desk, a collection of postcards. Stuff.
Being the well-intentioned child of socially conscious parents I recoil from defining myself as materialistic. However the more I think about it, the more I’m finding validity in the word. I do love this material world, and the way the physical can carry a story and preserve meaning.
When I was little I played a game with myself. I would stare at my most cherished and familiar belongings, striving to make them unfamiliar. Something would pop and, rather like the description of switching from left to right brain in Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, I would see my Teddy bear the way a stranger would, as a scuffed toy with a zipper across it’s back.
I don’t want to play that game anymore. Instead I’d like to explore more deeply the relationships I have with objects. See what comes up.
I love these two wooden spoons. The short one came to me in a batch of kitchen utensils when my ex’s grandmother moved into a home and distributed her belongings. It was already worn down on an angle from years of meals.
The large spoon was brand new when I bought it. I was working in a kitchen supply store, and for a while I oiled it, the way you’re ‘supposed’ to. I like it better now that it’s dried out and stained. The burn down the left side just happened last week when I left it too close to the flame. Still works good.