inventory.

we own, we collect, we see so much. these things, things that sit on our bookshelves, in our bedrooms, on our floors, and in our closets.

do we collect for ourselves, or for others to understand us?

i think both. is that wrong? when people come into my space, move my things, touch them, and read them, it makes me very nervous. i feel they can instantly judge me, they can see my literary history, my interests, my sketches, my trash, my treasures, my highs and my lows. and it makes me wonder, is it all necessary?

erin wasson, a model, designer, stylist, etc, had a sale at her home the other week - she apparently wanted to shed her fine pieces of balenciaga, chanel, and who knows what other amazing things to pare down her life. to adopt a minimalism that in my opinion, feels right for right now. none of this recessionary talk, but just, getting rid of the excess in this current climate.

but i just wonder, and I hope this doesn't come off as superficial, but can you define yourself with out these "things"? if no one can see and touch your copy of catcher in the rye you read a million times, if they can't see the folded page corners, or touch the coffee stains on those pages, can they really know that it was a part of you? is it nonexistent if you let it out of your sight and out your hands? of course not, it will live inside of you, but i think what scares me, is that i myself might forget.


photo, the selby.