Home

I live in an apartment now. I used to own a house, but no longer.
Still, I lugged my furniture here and proceeded to place it in some kind
of visually pleasing arrangement - modest though it may be.
What is it about us humans that we like to have our living spaces
resemble little museums or our own little theatrical stages or echoes of
rooms we have seen somewhere? Many of us go into huge debt in order to create living spaces that resemble something that we believe is expected of us in
order to show our maturity or our success or our sophistication.

It’s fascinating. Couches, chairs, bookshelves. Objects of art hung on the
walls. Most of us do this. Some of us are more non-conventional and we throw wall hangings and fabrics and found objects all over the place, possibly to break with normalcy and expectation. Some of us pare things down to the barest minimum to allow mind/breathing space and a sense of openness and possibility.

I have worked in some of the largest and most lavish homes in Cincinnati, in my
profession as an artist. I have also been in enormous homes that feel like stage-sets for peacocks or posers. Many people mistake size for status. However, when entering someone’s library, it’s easy to tell well-read books from trophy books bought en masse to fill shelves in order to look good.

Eventually, wherever we happen to be living usually becomes “home”.
After a really long, difficult day, I don’t want to be at someone else’s house, regardless of how fine or fancy or cozy it is...I want to be back in my own home.
Even if it’s just an apartment that I happen to be renting from somebody at the moment. Even if the arrangement of things seems fragile and somewhat tentative and not exactly High Style. Even if the tiny kitchen is cluttered with the remains
of a scattered lifestyle.