So. Last night we (the hubby, daughter and I) were all working late in the basement.... trying to get some semblance of organization down there. It started with an email message from a cousin who lives not too far away; and she wanted to come over and see my work space... and potentially buy some jewelry for her holiday gift giving.
You see... I adore this cousin... and I was mortified at the thought of her seeing my studio space in such a disaster. Bad enough that my house is tragically stuck in 1976 (yes--- paneling, shag and funky lights.... pale pink and gold bathroom... and horrible wall paper borders)... but the basement... well, the basement looks like a hoarder lives here.
After several episodes of flooding this year... and gathering stuff from "hill and yon" as projects... and of course, never really unpacking from moving here ... yah. It's an episode from hoarders.
Or at least, it felt like it to me.

Around midnight, traits of my mother's OCD kicked in... fueled by coffee and a frantic desire to not "repulse the family"... but, we were diligent.... we pressed on. And while Brina stared at us from the top of the steps... wondering what in the world we were up too... we moved and stacked, swept and wiped... and sort of grouped things into sections.

I think the problem stems from the very nature of being an artist.
You see the potential in everything. Every bit of paper, every random piece of wood or stone, fabric or bone... holds untold stories of what it could be. And so we save it. And because I used to work as a housekeeper/ organizer/cook/etc... I put it in containers. And label it.
Sort of. Or at least, I try.
But somewhere along the way this past year... things had gotten muddled.

But hey... it's a bit better now.

And even though I am exhausted... I am smiling... and it's time to go make something.