Rearranging
Growing up, once I was able to dress myself, I did so four to six times a day. Constantly trying on new combinations, each outfit felt like I was wearing a different person. The clothes gave me permission to play with and express different aspects of myself that were usually hidden.
When I was a little older, and physically able to move furniture, my fascination with transformation shifted to the rooms in our house. My childhood bedroom was very small. It fit a single bed, a desk, and not much more. Yet, a few times each year, I rearranged its contents. It was as though my room became a mirror for the emotional upheaval and confusion of adolescence. The obvious position for the bed was lengthwise along the right-hand wall. At the far end of the room was a medium-sized window and, along the other wall opposite the bed, a closet with folding doors. Once, I remember positioning the bed horizontally under the window. In this configuration, I couldn’t completely open one of the closet doors. But it didn’t matter. It was an experiment. Every time I rearranged, I would tap into a somewhat fantastical hope that something new would emerge—that somehow, if I kept trying, a new, totally different room (me) would be revealed.
My penchant for moving furniture helps me remain attuned to my house and to notice qualities that may have shifted beyond my awareness. Rearranging furniture, plants, and art keeps me more present and attuned to my current environment. Our house has become a subtle but constantly evolving space. Most often, the changes will be very slight. A plant rotates or moves to another location. The rocking chair and armchair switch places. A pillow moves from here to there. But even when the shift is small, the entire room has a slightly different resonance. Unfamiliar shadows appear and new relationships between objects emerge like shifts in the conversation. Now, my view from the rocking chair is different—from here, I can see the painting.
Recently I moved a lamp from the bedroom to the dining room for more light now that winter is creating darker evenings. What happened surprised me: the light projected shadows, of the plant sitting beside it, onto the ceiling. Suddenly, giant leaves patterned the wall and the ceiling, once invisible, became part of the room.
