i have had the luxury of working in the paper room most of the week. my paper room sits high in the trees on the second floor of my studio. the side garden with the horse-shoe pits waiting for summer, is directly below with the sparkling lake just beyond. it feels like a treehouse, but also like a ship, with the wind turbulent and boisterous as it writhes around my little room. i curl into the big chair beside the window and revel in the towers of old paper threatening to topple all around me. there are papers that i recognize from 25 years ago that i'll never let myself use, but i love seeing surface in the tangle of the familiar. cigar boxes and drawers and folders and shelves and tables and tins, all spilling over with paper. my paper room has a delightful sloped ceiling that tucks me in it's fold as i sit on the floor sifting through maps and dictionaries and instruction booklets and old currency and collections of letters. the beautiful wide hemlock floorboards entirely disappear beneath what most would consider a horrible mess. books and torn pages and baskets like little mountains sprouting from every bare spot in the room.
but this is where i can lose myself, immersed in my work with no distractions, where my mind can distill all it's questions and ideas into journals and collage that i love.
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