When we were looking for houses there was one thing I made very clear to our real estate agent: I required a separate room, with a door, for making mosaics in. In our apartment, I made mosiacs on our dining room table and it didn’t really seem to matter how diligent I was about vacuuming the area up, we still tracked shards of glass all over the place. We found a house with such a room and my father-in-law added another outlet and a light switch at the door so I wouldn’t have to stumble through a dark room to pull the cord on the bulb. It was all lovely and I was very excited.
Then, I had a miscarriage and I proceeded to do what amounts to absolutely nothing in that room. I started a couple things when I began to feel a bit better but they remain half-finished. [Theresa, it’s possible you own the last mosaic I ever did or ever will do]. There are other excuses besides the miscarriage. I wanted to try painting, do more collage and drawing – things that theoretically would loosen up the mosaics but are also things that take place outside of that room where there is more natural light. I have been doing something in the last two years, but not mosaics. In fact, lately I’ve been railing against mosaics. "I just want to take a break," I say. "But it’s your thing," say others.
I don’t know if it is my "thing". My "thing" changes all the time. But I do like making mosaics and I guess the reality is, I’ve been on a "break" for two years. It’s probably time to decide if this is a "break" or if this is "over". And, like everything else in preparation for moving, it’s time to clean out the art room. I’ve been working on it for two nights and it has been the toughest job yet. I’ve found a lot of stuff in there unrelated to art, a pretty depressing indicator of the state of my "thing" and which I guess naturally happens when you abandon a room. I found four (4!) blankets. I found Kev’s swimming trunks. I found a lot of spiders. I found a bunch of old writing, some of which was mine and some that had been written by my friends (old copies of "Write of Spring" and "Writing from Room 204" for you EYCI almuni).
Finding the writing made me sad. It was damaged in a flood and although I rescued it at that time and it dried fairly well, it’s all wrinkled and stuck together and stinky and some of it’s a bit moldy. I guess that’s all very fitting really since I haven’t written a thing since university. Just because you have an aptitude for something, does that mean you have an obligation to do it for the rest of your life? I have often asked myself this about writing, but it seems I now have another medium to wonder about as well.
In an effort to delay having to make any decisions about exactly how much of my supplies had to go, I stood around popping letters off a couple old keyboards (mosaic supplies are diverse!). I observed a pair of old rollerskates that I’d once had big plans for. Basically, I found something else standing there: Ideas.
Brilliant timing. Just fucking brilliant.