This place

I am getting ready to move out, donating clothes and books, throwing out volumes of paper filed away in the belief I would need those documents, cuttings and notes (it has turned out I really don't). Most of my 'stuff' is in my studio (as much as minimalism appeals to me, for the artist part of me it is impossible) and on my bookshelves.

The objects in this house all tell a story and are a link to the people who gave them to me. When I taught a summer camp recently, I brought half my household for the still life lesson, and afterwards I noticed my beautiful wooden heart was missing. I mentioned it to the kids the following day, saying it might have got lost in the chaos of leaving the room, and it turned out one of the girls had 'given' it to one of the boys. There was sniggering, and he blushed, and I decided not to ask for it back. This was a sweet story, and I like to think of this cheeky but innocent 10-year old taking home the little wooden heart. It made me realise how much these objects mean to me, but it is the meaning, the story, that is most important.

When I moved in here, I had no idea how long I would stay, and while I made a good few changes (painting some of the furniture white, with my landlady's permission and approval), there were other things I never got around to, possibly because of that tenant mentality of only passing through. My 'gardening' efforts here never extended beyond potted plants. Years ago I shared a house with friends, and one of them designed and maintained an elaborate vegetable patch in the garden. I marvelled at her dedication. She made the most of the short time she lived in that house. I only changed one curtain here, and while I own some pieces of furniture, certain parts of the house - the shoe shelf!- remained in a 'this-will-do-for-now' state for the seven years. And seven years is a long time.

And yet I put a lot of love into this little house. This has been my sanctuary. It has felt like an all-year-round holiday house (it has also felt cold in the last two years, when the cavity insulation had sunk... I am already looking back through rose-tinted glasses). It gave me the luxury of having a dedicated studio space. I documented the changing light and colours across the bay (a long-term project that I want to make into a series of paintings) from my doorstep, and cultivated a wonderful friendship with my 81-year-old neighbour. After the various types of shared accommodation in my student years this was the first place I was able to call home apart from my childhood homes.

 

Warmth and centre

"I have always lived in houses with a chimney, that's also very important to me. 

Always fires because it gives warmth and centre, it gives light. 

I always had animals, cats and dogs." 

(Juliette Binoche in a recent interview with The Sunday Times Magazine)

As the little house I have been renting for the past six-and-a-half years (where did the time go?) begins to show the signs of the extremes in the Irish weather (cracks, damp, failing to heat up properly), I have been tempted to think in terms of need and want (complete first-world problems) rather than gratitude for what I have. I still love this place, but when I came across the above, it brought into sharp focus that the structure she talks about is missing - I felt the absence of a fire, the absence of pets. Both will come when they are supposed to, I'm sure, or maybe they won't, and that'll be ok, too, if it has been ok for the last six years or so.

After the three weeks of the cosiness of blazing fires in my mom's house, I am finding it hard to adjust again. I have been walking around with a hot-water bottle tied to my body; we attempt to curl up under a blanket on my way-too-small hard couch, and when I am on my own, I retreat to bed early because it's the one warm place (after the addition of a hot water bottle). Then I think I am missing out on so much of life by going to bed so early, and I blame the cold. Yes, ALL the procrastinating and ALL the stress is due to living in a cold house.

And yet I love spending time at home. So I am shifting the focus back onto the good things, of which there are plenty. The flowers on the table (each time I am as touched by this gesture as on the first occasion, and I photograph every bunch) are my centre in the absence of a fireplace. Or the gigantic candle with the tall flame on my coffee table, a mini fire. And I am making small, mostly inexpensive changes, because change is good, and while I don't agree with the 'update your home decor every season and buy tons of new stuff!' mentality, I do believe in Feng Shui, and I have found that some of the objects and arrangements that have been the same for years feel stagnant or are actually disintegrating into a state beyond a welcome wabi-sabi aesthetic. New bedclothes (a generous gift), the aforementioned candle, thick towels, buying prints of artwork by friends and framing them.

Even just rotating my books has helped clear some mental clutter and the feeling of being stuck. And mending clothes, sewing on buttons, finally refilling my fountain pen, polishing the coffee jug - nothing earth-shatteringly important, but it makes me feel more grounded. It may all be yet another way of procrastinating (this is how I am spending the limited time I have at home during the busiest time of the year), but it is just what I need, a form of domesticity meditation.

Being and nothingness and things

Inventory

"She thought of Giacometti, shocked out of domesticity for ever by an early confrontation with death. It began with a chance, brief meeting on a train with an elderly Dutchman. [...] They planned a journey together to Venice, but had scarcely set out when the elder man fell ill and died. Giacometti was twenty. The horror he felt on seeing the transition from being to nothingness would never leave him. In the face of certain annihilation, the clutter of domesticity was, to him, a monstrous lie. Why pretend life is anything other than transitory? Why pretend you are anything other than utterly alone in your existence?" 

(Madden, Deirdre: Nothing is Black, faber and faber, London 2013, p.109)

I have a difficult relationship with 'things'. Seeing interiors that reflect my taste, even collections of things, I can imagine happily inhabiting spaces filled with objects without perceiving them as a burden, and to a certain extent I do so in my house/sanctuary, but at the same time I always crave the freedom of less, and even the relatively small number of my own belongings can overwhelm me, for reasons expressed in the extract above - though I should add that my own view is nowhere near as bleak.

I do derive pleasure from new things and presents and adhere to the 'beautiful and/or functional' criteria (I include 'loving it' under 'beautiful'). And I have noticed that often it is simply a question of feng shui: the dead energy of things I need to let go of that are sitting somewhere with no purpose. Once they are gone, new things are welcomed in their place and used with enthusiasm.

Over the years I have acquired a couple of gadgety items that I like (a handheld blender comes to mind), but overall I keep them to a minimum - as a magazine article I read recently (in the new mindfulness magazine Flow my sister brought back from Germany) said, they can make life more hectic, despite their time-saving claims: when you expect every chore to be sped up or done for you, you don't give yourself the time out to do the task at hand and let your mind wander (or, even better, become absorbed in the task). I may whinge that my arm is sore from whisking egg whites sans kitchen machine, but it is much more satisfying this way.

A few days ago I sold a painting, and mixed in with the usual delight at having someone value what you create was the relief of 'one less painting taking up space in my house'. Art-making always means a lot of objects (both materials and creations), so the secret part of me that wants to be able to move around freely unburdened by material possessions would never be able to coexist with the artist me.

Apologies for the slightly depressing tone of this post just before Christmas (maybe brought on by the sheer quantity of things the pre-Christmas period spews out. Apart from that I love Christmas). I guess it is about traversing this strange transitory existence with these "necessary" lies, as the protagonist in Madden's book calls them, and which can give us security, but in the full knowledge of the truth, and not be weighed down by either. I am trying.

Simplicity

Alliums on Matt's table

In a week that contained parts resembling a bad TV drama (absolutely nothing to do with my sister's first week in Ireland), I have reached Friday craving simplicity.

Apparently, I cannot even call myself an aspiring minimalist (I prefer the term Voluntary Simplicity anyway), as I show no signs of turning my house into an empty white box, but I accumulate far less stuff than the average person. However, things still have a habit of building up in volume eventually, and I spent several hours in cathartic mode - getting rid of shoes that are not compatible with my knee problem, doing paperwork, sorting through the pile of cuttings that I tend to chuck into a drawer rather than filing straightaway.

Part of me thinks I have no need to hold on to bits from magazines and newspapers, but going through them last night was inspiring, and I see the creative necessity for notebooks and folders filled with these snippets that I deemed worth revisiting. The randomness of this collection sparks connections and associations that help get me unstuck when it comes to art-making.

So I try to resist the frequent urge to throw them all out and delete all my bookmarks and my e-mail archives and give away all my paintings and drawings until everything is just pleasingly calm, empty space, because I can see how that is dangerously close to an anorexic mindset (the desire to take up as little space as possible and ultimately to disappear).

My sister and brother-in-law are waiting for the containers with all their stuff, and the whole operation makes me think how much easier it would be to own so little that moving would not be weighed down by one's possessions, but then again I am hardly planning a nomadic lifestyle, and I like being surrounded by books, art, clothes and objects that remind me of the people in my life, and as long as I stay on top of clutter and the cuttings are filed rather than jumbled together in a drawer, I feel comfortable. Outer order does contribute to inner calm, at least for anxious people like myself.

Objects and memories

When I visited my family last year, I spent several days in a cathartic letter-and-diary-burning frenzy.

I have been thinking about this and about memory in general a lot since I read The Sense of an Ending (I won't divulge more - I try not to include spoilers when talking about books here), and I just dug out this article from my bookmarks (she also has a beautiful blog), which says it better than I could. I wanted to "smoke [people] out of my life", too. I also found it painful to reread those words from years ago and felt it served no purpose to hold on to them and revisit the past or leave them for others to read.

As somebody who loves reading biographies, autobiographies and collections of correspondence, which are easier to write and in the case of the latter only possible if the subject's letters and diaries remain, perhaps I should be in favour of preserving personal writings for posterity*, although I do have mixed feelings about posthumous revelations (especially when no consent was given). The writings and other paraphernalia people leave behind necessarily represent only a tiny portion of the complexity of a life, and the snippets we salvage are often taken out of context and misinterpreted. A false story can be constructed. Of course this is a problem that all biographers face, and words have limitations.

This very space is a kind of diary that anybody can read. But it is written with that in mind and a million miles away from something I wrote for myself or others wrote to me privately.

It was a relief to get rid of all these remnants from the past, even if I have no control over the letters I wrote. Expunging the physical reminders of certain phases in my life does not delete the memories themselves, but I am a big believer in decluttering one's life, and this was a crucial part.

On  my visit this time, however, I didn't get rid of anything, but instead searched for things that I had been thinking of recently, like the beautiful mountain-and-moon necklace in the photo. My late father brought it back from a trip (my sisters also got one each) years ago, and I rarely wore it at the time. It ended up in my jewellery box, occasionally to be looked at.

A few weeks ago it popped into my mind and I made a note to look for it. When I found it, as well as other pieces that hadn't seen daylight in years, I made a resolution to wear more jewellery, especially the jewellery that was given to me and has meaning beyond its appearance. Although some time ago I decided not to save anything for special occasions and instead use the things I love, it somehow never extended to jewellery. I was too worried about losing it. Seeing my sisters both wear the necklaces my younger sister had commissioned for the three of us almost every day made me reconsider this. One of the quotes I have attached to my mirror is about letting go the things that are taken from you (to which my sister added the words "or replace them" when I ordered a replacement for a scarf I had lost!...). I will be sad if I lose an object precious to me, but this outcome is better than never using the object in the first place.

*Since I don't expect to become famous and my letters and notebooks will hardly be of interest to the wider world, I exclude myself from that. My aunt is compiling a chronicle of our family. If subsequent generations decide to do the same, they may not find much among my belongings.

Real books

I have bought a good few novels recently. During my last decluttering episode I decided to get rid of a number of novels, the ones I was sure I wouldn't read again. I thought I would try to mostly borrow novels from the library instead of buying them. And, if I were to buy any, then there are charity shops, bookcrossing, and passing them on to friends or family.

I don't want to start reading on a kindle. It may be great for travelling, and the minimalist in me likes the idea, but I love physical books -their smell, look and tactility, even the sound of turning pages- too much. I like being able to open a different page to check something while still having the current page open, to have it all there at once, not just one page at a time.

I don't see books as visual clutter, as filled bookshelves can look very decorative, but I don't like the idea of "dead" books - books that sit there never to be read again, when someone somewhere might like to read them. So generally that is my criteria - those books have to go.

The reason I did buy piles of novels again, without knowing whether I would like them enough to reread, is that they were beautiful. There are several books I own that I display as works of art, and I don't tire of looking at them. And I love dandelion seed heads, so I had to get the hardback edition of The Sense of an Ending (I also had heard great things about it).

Apparently making visually beautiful books is big right now (I love that Barnes thanked his book designer in his Booker acceptance speech), when e-readers are becoming more popular, in the same way that in recent years a lot of musicians have released CDs in elaborate packages, with extensive booklets and extra material, as an answer to the rise of digital music.

Now that I think of it, I don't have many ugly books. I don't like neon colours, and sometimes I find bright-orange spines with black and white writing a bit too much. I don't like it when a non-chick-lit book gets the chick-lit treatment (including a swirly candy-coloured font and often some cringeworthy illustration of The Modern Woman), and I was very disappointed when I saw what one English edition has done to Pippi Longstocking (it involved glitter on the cover, and Pippi looked sort of sexualised). But most of the books I own I actually really like the look of.

So perhaps I will never be a minimalist when it comes to books and instead will end up with the big library I used to dream of having one day, dust and all.

Restoring calm, or a semblance thereof

Button, thread, afternoon light

I have, for the most part, stopped stressing about everything so much, rushing, anticipating the future and losing the present moment. Reframing is the magic word, turning chores and routines into meditation and enjoyment.

Take walking to get somewhere (as opposed to walking for the sake of walking - but really they shouldn't be that different): I used to rush, thinking of where I was heading. Going into town from work - which isn't even that far - I would walk briskly, forgetting to breathe properly, and wonder why I was exhausted upon arriving. Lately I have been focusing on my breathing, on the air, on sights and sounds and smells, and enjoying the walk, the journey. It makes such a difference.  I can still walk fast, thus getting some exercise out of it, and enjoy it for that. It doesn't leave me depleted as before.

I think I used to be this ball of tension and it drained the life out of me.

  Finished!

All those unfinished knitting projects that were everywhere in my house, with their threads hanging out physical reminders of the loose ends in my life right now, have been tamed. I always thought I disliked weaving in the ends. It seemed necessary but boring (I also thought I didn't really know how to do it - turns out there is no right way). When I finally set to work on it I actually found it quite enjoyable and the feeling of accomplishment almost stronger than while actually knitting - obviously because this is the point where it turns from a work-in-progress into a finished piece.

Similarly, I also used to put off mending clothes, sewing on buttons, etc. Now I find it therapeutic. [Although, I might have thought I was very mindful sewing on a button on Matt's jacket, but I totally managed to sew the pocket together in the process! Start again...]

The list goes on. I like tidying and cleaning because it restores some semblance of order and calm to my world, if only for a brief time before it has to be repeated. But there are certain chores that I used to dread at times. After dinner the pile of dishes in the sink can look a bit daunting, especially if you feel you could go to sleep. I reframed it in my mind - it gives me the opportunity to stand and move after sitting at the table and makes me feel more energetic. Now I get up and just do the dishes. And then they're done. Easy. And while I do them I focus on the task and it becomes a meditation.

Apparently, for unemployed people small things like going to the post office can become a huge chore. I am like that sometimes (though luckily not unemployed): when I have a lot of free, unstructured time, the small things just grow. Whereas during busy times I get into a rhythm of just getting on with stuff. I am trying to approach everything in this way all the time now, incorporating whatever comes up into the flow of my days. After all things big and small all make up the rhythm of our lives.

Obviously there are still moments  when I get stressed, tasks I dread, and situations I find difficult to navigate or enjoy, and I don't go around with a constant Zen-like smile on my face, but on the whole my life has become so much easier since I started focusing on what I am doing in the moment and seeing the beauty in everything. 

Life mostly isn't ordered and calm; it is chaotic and unpredictable, and that makes it so exciting, but it is good to know, especially for an anxiety-plagued person like me, that certain areas can be made somewhat calmer and more ordered and thus replenish our energy, making it easier to face life's struggles and turmoil.

Getting ready for autumn

 Indian spice box

work-in-progress

 fan - redecorating my bedroom

This week has been about organising/planning/decluttering/cleaning. Maybe it's the transition into autumn (autumn clean?) or simply more procrastination, but I do hope this whole endeavour means I am making space for getting things done or at least for feeling better/lighter.

My books now live in colour harmony (see last post). This has made me rediscover old favourites and it's a nice change.

I am tidying up all the folders on my computer - it makes such a difference. It always bothered me that everything was so chaotic and that I had held on to so many pictures and other files that I don't need.

It seems to be contagious - Matt has been busy getting rid of things, out of his own free will. He discovered he had an Indian spice box hidden somewhere inside a cupboard and put it to use. I love the colours. I used to have all my spices on the kitchen counter (they fit under the windowsill), but found it looked too cluttered, so now they live in a drawer with labels on the lids. I need to be able to see what I have - I tend to forget about things if I can't see them. 

The days are getting shorter and it is still a bit dark when I get up. I finally joined the gym again after a one-year break and went for a lovely early-morning swim (only 15 mins) and sauna (an hour?) yesterday, which also meant I did not get stuck in traffic on my way in. I worried about spending so much money after my long unpaid summer, but it is an investment in my health, after all.

I haven't really been spending money on stuff and haven't felt the need. When I go into town I find the shops overwhelming. I did buy a book and tights and I am planning to get a hand blender (although I love being old-fashioned in the kitchen and mixing everything by hand, and I don't want to accumulate too many kitchen gadgets, but certain soups and smoothies call for a blender) and a warm dressing gown - I wore my last one to death. 

Weekend plans include:

-run, swim and sauna 

-work on some illustrations

-get ready for teaching in October

-pick blackberries and sloes (they are abundant where I live) - I find I don't tolerate alcohol very well these days -after a few sips of wine I find it impossible to drink more-, but I love a homeopathic dose of homemade sloe gin in the evening

-make this cake

Books by colour

With way too much time on my hand (convalescing, so leaving the house or anything too exhausting, physically or mentally, wasn't an option), I decided to re-organise my bookshelf, by colour.

I spend a lot of time in my house and therefore a lot of time looking at the objects it is filled with. Since I am a neat freak -and it's getting worse-  I thought arranging my books by colour might be a good idea and look less overwhelming. Although I hasten to add that books on shelves don't really qualify as clutter in my opinion. Books are good.

Before:

And after:

I think I might still tweak it a bit here and there. My house is full of colours, but I don't like it when there is too much primary colour action going on. This "after" image is actually the toned-down version of what I attempted first, which was much bolder. 

I was a bit hesitant, because my books were organised by genre/subject before, and that does seem to make more sense. But I am a very visual person, and I actually think it will be easier to find a particular book, as I always know exactly what the cover looks like. I also like how this system juxtaposes completely unrelated material and how the colours play off each other. I do not like all the black. Nor do I like the black leads creeping from the speakers, for that matter. Also, from now on I will rotate the books whose covers I display.

I moved some art books to my art room and put some books I am unlikely to ever read again into a box for the charity shop. So it feels a bit lighter now, too.

Facts about my books:

-Most of my books (well, at least the spines) are white, black is second, blue is third. I only have one book with a purple spine -there are very few purple books, when I think of it.

-I own quite a few books I haven't read yet, though I've had them for years and look forward to reading them.

-Now it is not so embarrassingly obvious at first glance just how many self-help and esoteric books I own!

Bags by Anke Ryan

Five-year plan #26 (or something): When my older sister and her husband finally move here (WHEN??!!), we will set up a market stall selling handmade things. In the meantime I am trying to convince her to open an online shop. Here are two bags she has made for me in the last few months. She is much more prolific than me. I think she doesn't sleep.

 The detail!

Despite her warnings not to carry too much heavy stuff in it, this was my everyday bag for months, filled with all the survival-bag essentials I used to carry around with me. It seemed sturdy enough, but then one seam tore a bit, and I haven't got around to fixing it yet. This (and my decluttering frenzy) made me reconsider what I schlep around with me (and what it does to my shoulder), and I am now quite happy to leave the house without the heavy second notebook, keys I don't even know what they were for and several weird make-up items I never needed (though I am still known to carry two or more bags at a time...)

Goggles and happiness

On Thursday I got two good pieces of advice from a friend. After telling him my woes, he said "keep swimming in the sea, and bring goggles", and he suggested I spend a week on Inishbofin, Island of the White Cow, on my own. Now I often get advice and think it is great, but then don't act on it, but I kept thinking of these two things all day. Yesterday morning, after a run, I peeled off my sweaty clothes, put on my bikini and went straight to the beach, and I brought my goggles. I spent quite some time with my face underwater, taking in the beautiful turquoise world down there. For some reason, I had never considered wearing goggles while swimming in the sea. It added another dimension. I also started planning a trip to Inishbofin, although I'm not sure whether it'll be a whole week, nor when it will happen.
I spent the day at home yesterday, doing exciting things like cleaning out the fridge. I try not to let food go off, but I had all these jars of sticky things like chutneys, which I used to love, but now find too sweet (says the person who had two meals that consisted mainly of chocolate the other day... so much for eliminating sugar). They were way past their best-before date, so they had to go. I actually prefer to just cook with fresh ingredients and make everything from scratch.
I am still in decluttering mode, and I thought I didn't have much to declutter... Last week I got rid of all the cardboard boxes I had kept (what for - for when I move out?) and college stuff.
Less stuff + morning swims + finished projects = a good week.