I remember reading Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's Own" when I was about twenty & considering how important it was to make sure I had my own space. At the time, it seemed easy to do: the extra bedroom would be my "workroom", with the long table, the sewing machine, art, fabric, photos, drawings. The window looking out over the garden...
Years went by and the space somehow disappeared. Children needed bedrooms, toys and books, musical instruments, their art, their imaginative jumble, took over everywhere, and my "space" became smaller and smaller.
There was always an office (and at home, a desk carved out in a corner), but the idea of "space", where creativity was more the focus, was elusive.
Now I find that I am once again in a position to claim "space" for myself. It feels a bit strange, like an almost forgotten memory of something I once did... this won't be the same space as anything I had before, and I feel much more tentative about the creative part of it. But I suspect I will begin to enjoy this place.
A new space. Arms outstretched, I feel the fluttering of ideas.
No comments:
Post a Comment