Everything stops, suddenly. I look around. This is not the space I want to live in. it's never as clean as I'd like it to be. It's a room of someone who wants to be alone in their own universe. This is not completely untrue, I must say, but I like letting the odd individuals into my world. There is a lot of reminders of unfinished projects lying around that makes me feel guilty every time I look at them. Do you have a feeling that sometimes your room lives its own life, creating a mess even when you're not there? How come soon after you clean, things seem to be spreading on every inch of a flat surface. For me, there is never enough space, I will just cover all available tables with many projects and create various work stations. Our environment influences how we feel. If by magic we understand our influence on the environment, it's only asking to take a look around and see how much we are influencing the space we live in and how much it is influencing us. When I was younger, I was very lonely and could never sit alone in my room for too long. I would drop the things on the floor and leave the house in search of cure. I would come back late, tired, only able to fall asleep just to start it all over again tomorrow. It definitely affected how I felt. There was a lot of running away and being with myself was very challenging. There is no right answer - some people function better in sterile environment, whether others need the place to hold signs of high activity, be full of artistic mess, decoration, visual boards. I tended to live my life in extremes, so either everything was permitted or I couldn't stand a little dust and I would end up polishing the floor all day. I would never be filthy, no, but definitely messy. Call it artistic. The thing is, I never felt chez moi anywhere. I knew wherever I was, it was temporary. Most of my things stayed in suitcases and I never made the space my own enough as far as to start hanging pictures on the wall, getting plants or buying pretty things. I was also mostly on a budget so I could never afford that anyway. Whenever I would move out, I would leave a lot behind, things too heavy to carry. It's inevitable, after 6 months in one place you will end up buying something that later on will be a burden. Even though I was aware of it, there always came a moment when I would acquire something to make space more personal. Some meaningful but impractical objects would travel with me, from country to country, from storage to storage. It was hard to let them go, as I felt they were a part of me. There are parts of us we identify with more stronger than with the others and that makes it harder to let go of them.
I thought of all the things in different basements, waiting for me to sort them out. Boxes full of junk and memories. There are few I want to save from oblivion. Some deserve a special burial. I can picture a high bonfire made of my unwanted memories. To exorcise the past, break the attachments. Sometimes I feel like in these boxes there is a piece of my soul locked away. Cleaning the storage would purge my soul. What about the items lost or stolen, inaccessible, those left behind with people we no longer wish to see. Do they own the pieces of my past? It has to be done or forgotten once and for all.
Back to my place. It is known that I am a gloomy creature and I love sitting in the dark. However, I usually like being woken up by the first rays of sun. I enjoy a playful dance of light and shadows on the walls. Darkness has ruled in this room for ages. It is perhaps why I have so much trouble waking up. Writing long into the night doesn't help. I wasn't supposed to stay in this place for as long as I have. I was planning to leave the country - even the continent - and I wasn't too concerned with making this space truly mine. Finally, many months and books later, it begins to have something of a magical vibe, although is still nowhere close to my aesthetic needs. So much incense had to be burnt to give this plain studio an air of mystery. It is subtle and probably only recognizable by me. A simple familiarity has become something more. I marked this space with daily rituals and other occult activities. It brought me security and inspiration. And just now, when I feel like it has become home for however long it takes me to figure out what's coming next, I might have to leave it. I shouldn't complain, really. It's probably the longest I stayed in one place in my adult life. It struck me. Is it really? Ten years already and I have never made it to the second anniversary. It would sound almost like my relationships, except they never reached the first one either. What a strange, chaotic life I've been living. What a wonderful and magical, crazy life. I am not aesthetically pleased by the current state of things but I accept it as influenced by practicality and limited resources. Otherwise I would go insane with decorating.
I grew up in a flat full of beautiful things. My mother had an amazing talent for decorating and putting objects together creating a wonderful atmosphere. There was always a lot of plants around. I like plants but found it hard to keep them alive. The sin of forgetfulness. Now less so, but constant moving isn't ideal for them. Dried flowers seem to have a better chance with me. My parents weren't big art connoisseurs but our walls were always covered with paintings, mostly of nature and landscapes. It was all not without a taste although I have a suspicion some of it was about creating appearances. My parents seemed to care about their image. I loved cupboards with glass doors filled with treasures. Tiny cups, glasses, china, silverware. Some never used, some taken out just for the very special occasions. It is sad to think all that is now packed away into boxes as a sad reminder of old days. The apartment now belongs to other people and I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. I don't know how much of it was saved, I wasn't there to know. I always had a weakness for glass, reflective surfaces. We had a collection of unique bottles of all shapes and colors. I never let to throw any away. I found them magical. So many mysterious objects, some were passed on from my grandmothers, some found on the antique markets. I loved going through the shelves and cupboards and admire the countless wonderful pieces hidden inside. Sometimes my mum would take out the caskets filled with old jewelry, scarves and other treasures. Some precious things found their way to me and I kept them safe ever since. Curiosity an admiration for beauty were things I didn't have to learn. Entire world can hide in a simple material manifestation. Our flat wasn't perfect but it inspired me to seek the space that would feel like home to me.
At some point we were supposed to build a house. Unfortunately, the project never came to fruition. Family debts finally forced us to abandon the dream. Before it happened, I used to spend hours browsing decor magazines and making plans for my future room. I would flick through the pages and carefully cut out the pictures I liked for the dream boards. I don't know what happened to them, I probably trashed them in some dramatic act of minimalism. My head filled up with the ideas and visions of the ideal home. Two opposites prevailed. One was an image of clean and modern space, without distractions. A place where big projects begin and my thoughts stay focused on one task. I wanted black cubic furniture and practical minimalist approach. The other one was an antique witch house full of magic. I used to think of the ways on how to compromise these two tendencies until I finally gave up. I am a girl of an organised chaos. I need the space to be alive, like me. I need my home to dream with me and open the doors to different dimensions. I need to travel in time and create. I never stopped thinking of wonderful interiors and ways to decorate space that reflects my personality.
I remember how I used to collect various things and put them in special boxes, treating every single one like a priceless treasure. I could collect anything I found intriguing, regardless of its value. Buttons, paper wraps, stones, shells, dried flowers, stamps, postcards. It was all wonderful and beautiful. I suppose most of them shared the fate of my vision boards and have been labeled "rubbish" in a painful process of growing up. Now I wish I never threw any of it away. How priceless are memories. I want to start new collections, a magical herbarium, a brand new museum of me. I want to find out who I was. I want to meet the old me.
I love dark beautiful things. They make me happy, I want to surround myself with beauty in its many forms. I love the stories and memories attached to objects. Our closest surroundings reflects what happens inside our heads. Whatever we willfully surround ourselves with over time reflects our inner and outer journey. To walk through a room full of carefully curated objects is walking through the inside of the collector's mind. The choices are not accidental. Perhaps we could look at the pieces we decorated our castles with and learn something about ourselves. I know houses like this. Full of magical objects with a soul. A home like a cabinet of curiosities where every little thing tells a story. These objects have power to transform you, to make you feel differently and transport you into a different time or space. I am able to fall in love in them and enjoy the feeling they give me, so otherworldly and subtle.