King Henry figurines. Teacups, toasters, typewriters. Also: hats. Lots of hats. Top hats, berets, fishing caps hung from splintery beams in the old barn-turned-living-room.
The musty scent of centuries as I wander through stacks of ancient encyclopedias. Caressing the spines is like touching old skin. Chalky. Rough.
In the red hope chest, my Scottish grandmother’s newspaper columns. “You will find yourself belonging more and more to your old house,” she wrote, years before my birth. “For this is what happens: you belong to it, not it to you.”
All this—and I, the sole curator, making room for my own self.
Just beautiful!!! I especially appreciate your post today as I'm beginning to work on a new series of paintings of rooms... the things we surround ourselves with tell stories don't they? And we create these stories...
Beautiful. It's as though she was writing TO you. This is why we write.