Twice | Pictures and Desks
you walk into the same space at the same time you always do with the same coffee in your hands and the same chair facing the same window
and yet it isn't
the same
today the sun is out and shining at an angle through young leaves that have yet to filter its rays as they hit the room
this same room
with the same hanging tokyo print and couch
and the old pull tugs and you feel your insides jerk and twist
with hunger
so you click
twice.
I use two desks—they're on the other side of that room, the one we'd look at if I turned the camera around. Two desks that were both kitchen tables at my parents' house growing up. I can't remember where I first heard the idea, of using different spaces for different tasks to alter your mindset and trigger a different outlook. But I've since read tons of stories on the subject, about authors, especially, going to great lengths in order to break with convenience, familiarity, and habit.
““Once I saw phosphorescent seas in a winter storm in front of the cabin; in the black night black seas broke in wild lines to the horizon and spilled green foam that glowed when the wind’s pitch rose, so I wept on the shore in fear.””
Two desks in one room is a far cry from a cold and remote cabin overlooking the North Sea. But the small change is still enough to displace the tediousness of repetition. There's a pavlovian component too: the digital desk signals music, photography, design work. It's a tabletop full of gear and wires, a camera for online call, chargers and drives. When I sit there my brain expects precision. But on the analog desk are scattered books, notebooks, and stationary. There's an iPad stand, my only concession, but it's used like a typewriter. This desk is where I write—by hand or keyboard. It's where brainstorms happen, and now, also, where plans and organization take place. Not precision, but chaos from which forms emerge.
Tiny bubbles.
Worlds apart.
