i believe in the value of other people's things. i use vintage silverware my uncle sent me and i wonder if the people who initially used it cared enough to actually polish it or if they let it tarnish like me, day after day. i live in a building constructed in the 1940s to house actors under contract with the studios. and i look at walls and doorways and the too large cabinets that modern day refrigerators don't fit under and try to imagine who lived here. that creaking floorboard in the tiny hallway. sometimes i will lean back and forth on it and wonder how many toes touched the same spot before it started touching back.
i'm sure most people don't think about these things.
i attribute emotions to books and jewelry and toys. statues and pictures and dishes. globes don't hold emotion, they just showcase possibility and the way we change our documentation of the world as we chip away at it. we find new planets and declare others obsolete and we run our fingers around the grooves of raised countries bordered with water that are dying of thirst.
clothes do not hold emotion. except maybe fur. but that depends on who is wearing it and when.
i spend a good portion of my life curating. one day, when i am an old woman, i envision a card catalog across one wall. in each drawer, a perfectly organized library of memories. cross-referenced and tangible. corresponding photos and small multi-colored dots indicating the vault to which you must descend to reach the highest shelf in the fine art section. if you skim them quickly enough, you will notice small pencil drawings in the corner. a flip book of me, small to large, there to here.