Cracks...

I once had a studio in an old factory. The floors were wooden and would bounce and creak every time I'd walk across them. One day the owner of the building told me that they would have to rip up some of the floorboards to fix some of the old pipes. It'd take a few days. I was still allowed to use my studio, I just had to be mindful of the hole and not get in the way of the repairmen.

When they pulled up the floorboards, more than just pipes were exposed. Little bits of life that had fallen through the cracks were sprinkled within the crevice. They were layered upon each other, the topmost belonging to me. Here I found the phone number of a friend I had lost. Here I found a piece of vine charcoal that had mysteriously vanished. I thought I was going crazy the night I lost it. I was in the middle of an intense drawing session when I set it down, got up, looked at the drawing a few paces back for perspective and then returned to fix a problem, only to discover it missing. I tore the place apart, looking futilely. Eventually I was so disgusted that I just left, drawing unfinished. Beneath the floorboards, little pieces of paper, string and leaves had fallen. They'd been swept up, or so I thought. German glass glitter, silver shards of mirror from one that had broken the day I moved in, loose change, a maraschino cherry stem from a party I had... and lots of dust... all there unbeknownst to me. There were things there from other people as well – people who had occupied the space before me. There was even traces from the days when the studios were still factories, ghosts of days long past.

Today feels like one of those days where the floorboards have been lifted up. One of those days, when you look around and realize that so many little things have slipped between the cracks. But here they are again and now you have to deal with them. Lots of little deadlines, promises, and emails have accumulated... things I thought were finished or done, or have come to terms with being unfinished.

Let's hope that there's a proverbial diamond stud at the bottom of this pile, like there was under the floor of my old studio.