The other day I was working on a novel, and
I realized that the main protagonist’s desk was the desk of an acquaintance
from 23 years ago. The mother of a friend of my youngest.
She’d given a boisterous birthday party
(weren’t they all?) and had taken a moment to show me to the upstairs bathroom.
Her husband at the time sold all kinds of
antiques and old papers and things, which spread like wild vines through the
house, filling one room, then another, and was at the time slowly invading the
living room, after having taken up in the dining room.
We crept upstairs while some other parent
keep an eye on the hordes, up a lovely old wooden staircase of their Victorian,
to the upstairs hall, and happened to pass her study.
I glanced as we went by, saying “Oh, is
this yours ?” Because it was that time, when, if you had kids, where on earth
was the room for your own self? Right?
She smiled, and stepped into the small,
high ceilinged room, and I stepped after her, to come upon the most beautifully
created desk space I’d ever seen, and is still true to this day.
I must admit I have always been taken
with the spaces creative people grow for themselves.
So, recently, I recalled this beautiful
space she had carved out for herself, and looked about and found her, connecting
with her once again.
Now with a different partner, in another
state, she wrote a wonderful reply, recalling her desk, and wishing she had
indeed taken a photo, but had not.
She
did kindly send me a photo of her current desk, which was fascinating, because
it is so clear and spare and beautiful in a whole other way.
I am imagining here, but it seemed as if
the desk of old felt like the one place a parent or partner could find a room
and a desk of one’s own. It was large and old and heavy wood, with places built
into the top, that were filled so beautifully with so many small mementos and
precious things. The wall above the desk had a myriad of tiny beautiful frames
of all sizes with artwork and saved bits and pieces in them and photographs and
all kinds of objects in between.
When I saw it, I simply stood there with
her, amazed at her creation, because it was. A creation. Of a cramped partner
and mother and person, blossoming in her own desk in her own room.
Now I recall the essence but not the
particulars; and yet, this protagonist I
am listening to and writing HAS a desk like this- the reliquary of so much of
their life that is meaningful or a passing loveliness or a secret sad moment.
She did reply recently, sending me this
link, thoughtfully. Of many desks of many creative people. I have seen many
online collections and books of the desks of artists and literary people, none
that satisfy as her’s did, by the way.
And I did love this collection, some of
which many of us are familiar with, such as Alexander Calder’s very famous
piled up desk, or E.B.White sitting, writing , at this plain quiet desk.
The Lennon/Ono photograph was a delicious
surprise, as well as Virginia Woolf’s spare, meticulous space, and the positive
riot of Nigella Lawson’s study.
Picasso seemed so powerful when I was a
young painter; now he makes me laugh with his silly posturing, probably my age
now, in this photograph, looking for all
the world like a little kid trying to pull up his shoulders and stand on tip
toes, to look big. Not that his talent was not big, but, you know.
Chagall will always have such a place in my
heart, as will Matisse, who is not in
this collection. I would feel fondly of their toilets or trashcans, for
goodness sake.
I am not fond of William Buckley, but must
say I am fascinated with his chaos. Jane Austen’s is so very very circumspect;
George Bernard Shaw’s for some reason very appealing. And I can just imagine
Rothko sitting in that Adirondack chair (terribly uncomfortable) , just sitting
and becoming steeped with his painting.
Not many women, and only famous people.
Still, I have always had a penchant for the Bower-Bird home flavor of ways that
we humans create our spaces where we…create.
I thanked her for the link; told her how I
enjoyed it and what surprised me. And let her know my final answer.
I
need to simply get down to it; that’s all. And create my own desk. The way we
create a precious garden. Planning does not help. All kinds of unexpected
things happen in real life. Responding and watching to see what flourishes and
what does not does not- does help.
That is , paradoxically, my best bet for seeing my protagonist’s true desk.
http://www.buzzfeed.com/summeranne/40-inspiring-workspaces-of-the-famously-creative?utm_term=15sgbe7#15sgbe7
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