Living In Art

For ages I've had this funny little dream that I'd like to have a live-in art gallery. This probably started when I went to an art opening somewhere (I have completely forgotten where) and talked to the owners of the place for a while about how they set it up and stuff, and the fact that it was their home, or at least it was attached to it and their proper home was in some closed off rooms. Unless I've imagined that part of the conversation, as I partly suspect. It's one of those memories that I'm not sure is real.

But since then I've loved the idea of living amongst art, of having your home be a showcase. It could be as simple as having an art shop and living in the flat above it, or shoving lots of things on your walls, like I've done. I guess I love decorating, and I love curating a space, and I love taking both of those things to an extreme. I've made my bedroom like a shell grotto, but with paintings and notes and photos instead of shells.

It's partly to do with the concept of preciousness too. I mean, there's the idea of special things kept for special occasions, like fine china that never gets used. I try not to keep too many paintings and fun things and personal mementos away in boxes and drawers, because I want everything I have to be an active part of my life. Some things are nice to get out and look through every so often, sure, but I love the presence of paint and colour and memory all around me. It makes me feel there. It makes me feel present.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Thank you so much for your comments, especially if they include limericks about skeletons.