For my project, I'd like to explore how people personalize space in a more insular environment, particularly solitary dwellers, specifically relating to objects in the spaces. I think this would involve looking at the tie between the 'stuff' itself and what the stuff has to do with the idea of a particular space. Also, why people hang on to certain things but not others - like some objects that are constantly in a space that is otherwise dynamic.
There is a phenomenon in New York and probably other cities (and I'm sure outside cities also, but I find the phenomenon most compelling in cities) whereby "hoarders" exist - people who have ridiculous amounts of seemingly valueless stuff - old newspapers, old clothing and shoes, even empty containers. This would an extreme example of genuine eccentricity, and I don't want to verge into exploring mental illness, but I think that the principle might apply to different levels of 'hoarding.'
I think that some objects' perceived value versus actual (Personal) value might be strangely divergent. Even legitimate minimalists hang onto things which serve no real purpose, even on a grounding or psychological level, but upon even a little thought or reflection or goading they discover that their lives are not only no worse without the objects, but actually better and more liberated.
Some questions that that end might be what significance is attached to objects that are associated with a space, how it acquired that significance, and if the significance either fades over time or was illegitimate to begin with.
************
My favorite piece or writing this semester so far was Zelinksy's article 'The Uniqueness of the American Religious Landscape.' I like his narrative style - it presents the evidence in a clear way yet was still full of anecdotal examples that made it colorful and enjoyable. I think he also was able to interject some of his own views in a subtle way that still allowed the reader to draw his/her own conclusions.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Underground Week 5
To enter the basement room now is to be deluged with cultural iconography, imagery and media. almost all of it is benign in nature, at least to my sensibilities, and evocative of nothing but comfort, repose and peacefulness. The room is apolitical in nature; the only indication that politics even exist is a poster of 'Rambo' with Ronald Reagan's head photoshopped (though the poster almost certainly predates photoshop) onto his body and the text "RONBO" displayed at the bottom. My younger brother found it in some funky junk/coffee shop in Manhattan's rapidly disappearing Little Italy some five years ago and thought I would like it. I do (I self-identify, like he, as a liberal Democrat).
The 'energy' test for stuff in the room (when I was still putting time and energy into it) was twofold: Objects had to 1) have some soul or meaning to them and 2) not bring anything into the place that would disrupt in any way the chill atmosphere. There was the one place in the world I knew I could go into and find nothing that would well up stress, sadness, or even introspection of any serious nature in me by so much as glancing at. This effect developed, like so much else, almost inadvertently over time. The collective effect is almost always sufficient to swamp any hints of anxiety or bad vibes. Looking at Ronald Reagan's smiling mug in that context doesn't, as it normally might, bring up in me thoughts of spiraling federal budget deficits, threat of nuclear annihilation or ketchup as a vegetable; it instead invokes a simpler time in my life, before I was politically conscious in any meaningful way.
At the same time, the room isn't a place for pensive thought or reminiscing - it's about existing in the moment, independent and irrespective of yesterday or tomorrow. This, of course, is a double-edged sword. In such an environment it's easy to get carried away and descend into something that too resembles hedonism to be comfortable with. I had managed to create something that I never thought was even possible - a place in which life simply exists without. What goes on there truly just seems to be something apart. I know in reality the venue has nothing to do with it - it's really a state of mind that allows you to totally detach yourself from your all too real worries and stresses. I've never been able to do that before and truly didn't think it was possible. For some people, perhaps, but never me. It's like a quaint Rockwellian image of an old man going fishing to forget his life's shortcomings and lost loves; or maybe a financial commercial depicting a businessman absurdly kayaking on some river, complacent and with total peace of mind because his assets are in the capable hands of responsible stewards.
I've learned over time that it's never a well-conceived idea to draw such distinctions between what you consider your 'normal life' and anything else. For someone like me, the pitfalls of such a localized philosophy are intemperance, self-gratification and escapism.
I've lately curbed my use of the Room in the interest of my well-being. On the odd weekend I stay at my parent's house, I no longer sleep there unless there truly are no other beds available. I've also gotten real about the fact that being serious about exercise and certain of life's little vices are simply mutually exclusive. I still enjoy being in the place, and spend time there after hours either alone or with my brothers or friends, but I envision a time in my life when I won't need a sanctuary so removed from reality, then finally won't want one.
While I work toward that, in the meantime I do, sadly, need a place like that and derive comfort at times just knowing that my proverbial and psychological 'happy place' is quite real and there. But I believe it's a start.
The 'energy' test for stuff in the room (when I was still putting time and energy into it) was twofold: Objects had to 1) have some soul or meaning to them and 2) not bring anything into the place that would disrupt in any way the chill atmosphere. There was the one place in the world I knew I could go into and find nothing that would well up stress, sadness, or even introspection of any serious nature in me by so much as glancing at. This effect developed, like so much else, almost inadvertently over time. The collective effect is almost always sufficient to swamp any hints of anxiety or bad vibes. Looking at Ronald Reagan's smiling mug in that context doesn't, as it normally might, bring up in me thoughts of spiraling federal budget deficits, threat of nuclear annihilation or ketchup as a vegetable; it instead invokes a simpler time in my life, before I was politically conscious in any meaningful way.
At the same time, the room isn't a place for pensive thought or reminiscing - it's about existing in the moment, independent and irrespective of yesterday or tomorrow. This, of course, is a double-edged sword. In such an environment it's easy to get carried away and descend into something that too resembles hedonism to be comfortable with. I had managed to create something that I never thought was even possible - a place in which life simply exists without. What goes on there truly just seems to be something apart. I know in reality the venue has nothing to do with it - it's really a state of mind that allows you to totally detach yourself from your all too real worries and stresses. I've never been able to do that before and truly didn't think it was possible. For some people, perhaps, but never me. It's like a quaint Rockwellian image of an old man going fishing to forget his life's shortcomings and lost loves; or maybe a financial commercial depicting a businessman absurdly kayaking on some river, complacent and with total peace of mind because his assets are in the capable hands of responsible stewards.
I've learned over time that it's never a well-conceived idea to draw such distinctions between what you consider your 'normal life' and anything else. For someone like me, the pitfalls of such a localized philosophy are intemperance, self-gratification and escapism.
I've lately curbed my use of the Room in the interest of my well-being. On the odd weekend I stay at my parent's house, I no longer sleep there unless there truly are no other beds available. I've also gotten real about the fact that being serious about exercise and certain of life's little vices are simply mutually exclusive. I still enjoy being in the place, and spend time there after hours either alone or with my brothers or friends, but I envision a time in my life when I won't need a sanctuary so removed from reality, then finally won't want one.
While I work toward that, in the meantime I do, sadly, need a place like that and derive comfort at times just knowing that my proverbial and psychological 'happy place' is quite real and there. But I believe it's a start.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Underground Week 4
"Do they think it's weird yet?" my brother asked me relatively early on in the annals of the Opium Den. He meant our parents. The room had surpassed a certain threshold, a tipping point really between what could be considered 'normal' and what was noticeably creeping toward the deep end. Beside that, certain drug references were already in plain sight for those who knew what to look for - several broken clocks adorned the ceiling and walls and all were set to 4:20. Wall and ceiling art abounded of latent and not-so-latent implications. "I want to see what we can get away with," I answered him.
My father was once a professional musician - he dropped out of Ithaca College as a sophomore in 1969 to play with his band, called "Klondike," full time. In a place of honor above the door rests one of the Room's most cherished relics - a fluorescent pink bumper sticker that reads "Boogie with Klondike." It's position there predates the room's current function and dates to when my father used the room as an erstwhile, awkward office at some point. For some reason, that fact makes it much more valuable to me.
My dad remains an avid musician, and goes through periods of relative inactivity punctuated by months of intense practice and playing. He currently plays in a few local bands with other people of his stripe and uses the Room as a practice space. It has several natural advantages for this, but the fact that it is in the basement (and the aural implications of that) are lost on no one. As a result, musical equipment litters the room, although everything has a definite fixed place. The accoutrements include a killer vintage Fender Princeton Reverb amp, a few mic stands, my fathers acoustic and electric guitars (a Guild and a Stratocaster), my electric guitar (I live in a large apartment building in Cambridge where I can't use it), picks, metronomes, finger slides, capos, a duffel full of harmonicas, binders of sheet music and lots of electrical cords.
That my father uses the Room as his practice space lends a crucial legitimacy to the Opium Den. In it's absence, other elements of the family (mom) would likely find the room intolerable, and the fragile armistice that we've achieved might be shattered in the name of common sense, cleanliness, and sociability.
Come to think of it, it is odd that my dad has been so cool about it - he genuinely seems to only enjoy the extra atmosphere that the bizarre surroundings afford and hasn't once made so much as a comment in the spirit of my mother's thinly veiled disdain. In fact, I distinctly remember a few benign observations that almost amount to compliments.
There is little conflict of room usage when I am home on the odd weekend; although occasionally my dad sets up shop to practice for an hour or two and I give him the space and time he needs. Sometimes, we even play together in the room, though lately our overlapping music interests are limited to less popular stuff that I have introduced to him as well as some universal classic rock. When we do, I feel most surprised that not even a mention of the less-than-sane roomscape around us is forthcoming.
Overall, there's no denying it's the seclusion afforded by the room that is it's biggest draw for all who use it. It's so far from any regularly used space or travel conduit in the house that almost never do visitors or even some members of the family have reason to enter it. This quality makes for a slight feeling of exclusivity regarding it. When I'm visiting home, however, the place does feel almost entirely mine despite the fact that my father uses it to practice and my brother (who lives in NYC and is home more often than I) sometimes brings friends down there to watch movies or whatever.
The door has several locks on it, including a few that I moved from the door of an adjacent room: a hook-and-eye, a chain, a padlock-ready latch and the lock on the heavy doorknob itself. I almost never use the locks and have no real reason for them to be there, but they're a weird comfort nonetheless.
My father was once a professional musician - he dropped out of Ithaca College as a sophomore in 1969 to play with his band, called "Klondike," full time. In a place of honor above the door rests one of the Room's most cherished relics - a fluorescent pink bumper sticker that reads "Boogie with Klondike." It's position there predates the room's current function and dates to when my father used the room as an erstwhile, awkward office at some point. For some reason, that fact makes it much more valuable to me.
My dad remains an avid musician, and goes through periods of relative inactivity punctuated by months of intense practice and playing. He currently plays in a few local bands with other people of his stripe and uses the Room as a practice space. It has several natural advantages for this, but the fact that it is in the basement (and the aural implications of that) are lost on no one. As a result, musical equipment litters the room, although everything has a definite fixed place. The accoutrements include a killer vintage Fender Princeton Reverb amp, a few mic stands, my fathers acoustic and electric guitars (a Guild and a Stratocaster), my electric guitar (I live in a large apartment building in Cambridge where I can't use it), picks, metronomes, finger slides, capos, a duffel full of harmonicas, binders of sheet music and lots of electrical cords.
That my father uses the Room as his practice space lends a crucial legitimacy to the Opium Den. In it's absence, other elements of the family (mom) would likely find the room intolerable, and the fragile armistice that we've achieved might be shattered in the name of common sense, cleanliness, and sociability.
Come to think of it, it is odd that my dad has been so cool about it - he genuinely seems to only enjoy the extra atmosphere that the bizarre surroundings afford and hasn't once made so much as a comment in the spirit of my mother's thinly veiled disdain. In fact, I distinctly remember a few benign observations that almost amount to compliments.
There is little conflict of room usage when I am home on the odd weekend; although occasionally my dad sets up shop to practice for an hour or two and I give him the space and time he needs. Sometimes, we even play together in the room, though lately our overlapping music interests are limited to less popular stuff that I have introduced to him as well as some universal classic rock. When we do, I feel most surprised that not even a mention of the less-than-sane roomscape around us is forthcoming.
Overall, there's no denying it's the seclusion afforded by the room that is it's biggest draw for all who use it. It's so far from any regularly used space or travel conduit in the house that almost never do visitors or even some members of the family have reason to enter it. This quality makes for a slight feeling of exclusivity regarding it. When I'm visiting home, however, the place does feel almost entirely mine despite the fact that my father uses it to practice and my brother (who lives in NYC and is home more often than I) sometimes brings friends down there to watch movies or whatever.
The door has several locks on it, including a few that I moved from the door of an adjacent room: a hook-and-eye, a chain, a padlock-ready latch and the lock on the heavy doorknob itself. I almost never use the locks and have no real reason for them to be there, but they're a weird comfort nonetheless.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Underground, Week 3
As time went on, I found that, back in Boston, certain things began to catch my eye that would ordinarily garner no interest. These included the disregarded cast-offs of some of the nicer neighborhoods in Cambridge. Curbs became potential treasure troves where one might happen upon needful articles.
Character or 'soul' became the prime requisite for any potential addition to the Room. Things with no history or significance were worthless. Used things, even if I knew nothing about their past, seemed more desirable. Each addition, provided it was of sufficient quality, brought a new energy into the Room. A pillow from the couch of my deceased Nonna (that's Italian for grandmother), an indescribable rusted metal widget that had served some municipal purpose for seemingly long decades, only to end up in the middle of the street in front of the house one brisk night (a contribution of my younger brother), paintings done and forgotten by art students I'll never know. Some objects or images from venues that I would disqualify out of hand I found to be, on the contrary, quite apt. A trip to the dollar store, for instance, yielded an oriental cane in the design of a dragon. On the one hand, it was a cheap piece of commercial crap with seemingly no soul to it. On the other hand, it was a real wooden cane, hand painted and jeweled with glass marbles, that someone halfway around the world had labored to produce using skills (for the non-automated aspects of it's construction) that I myself did not possess; skills that had most likely been honed via unfathomable repetition. And here it was, via airplane or ship, being sold for a dollar - a dollar - in upstate New York. What pittance could the worker who produced it possibly have netted for his labors from that one particular wooden cane? It rests, with another ornate cane brought back by my grandparents from some long forgotten trip somewhere exotic, by the door.
The object that comes most to mind was a wooden pulpit that my younger brother and I found on the curb in Newton on one of his visits up, years ago. It was painted a pallid yellow and looked a bit beaten up. It was about four and a half feet tall, had a slanted top for an open book, a shelf underneath for more books, and a wooden cross affixed to it's front. It was itself in front of a church and was clearly being disposed of. Without a second thought, we snatched it up and put it in the trunk of my car. I lived with several housemates in Waltham at that time, and couldn't quite bring myself to bring it up into the place. It sat in the basement for a year or two, occasionally I had to rescue it from the garbage pile on my own curb, since no one in the building claimed ownership. My landlord himself once lamented to me that he had personally put it on the curb the night before, only to find it back in the basement the next morning - perplexing because he had asked everyone in the house if they new anything about it and no one claimed any knowledge. I shrugged, said something like "that is odd" and continued with whatever I was doing. I didn't really know why I lied about it, what I was keeping it for, or why I even wanted it, but it had accrued so much character and had so many near-misses that I felt I had to keep it.
The pulpit came home with me when I moved out of Waltham, and sat in yet another basement (my parents') for a few years, until the basement Room became mine. My parents hated it from the first. My father (who, like me, is Jewish) told me unequivocally that it was 'disrespectful' (to the catholic faith, I gathered) to have it. My mother (who is Catholic), simply deplored it for what it was - a beaten-up eyesore that served no conceivable practical purpose and was creating yet more clutter in her basement. I moved it into the Room and it served as a great stand for my TV. I really meant no disrespect by having it, it wasn't displayed in any particular irony, I simply liked the character of it and thought it added something intangible yet of value to my space. How many sermons, prayers and eulogies had been delivered from it? The face of the TV, perched on the pulpit above the cross, assumed an eerie, incandescent glow under the black lighting, giving it the aura of a slightly creepy shrine to entertainment or some such. This was totally accidental and is illustrative of how objects can achieve a purpose and personality of their own, independent of ones intentions, in the right circumstances.
In the end, my parents finally got their way when I showed up at their house with an unexpected fourteen-foot kayak that I needed to stow there. They hated the idea of keeping the kayak there and flatly refused to unless I, in exchange, finally got rid of the pulpit. I really had no choice now but to acquiesce, but couldn't bring myself to throw it away or discard it (I also knew better than to ask my girlfriend if it could find a place in our apartment.). I drove it back to Cambridge and found a Salvation Army goodwill store on Mass Ave, and finding no one near the door, hastily dropped it near some end tables below a hand-written sign that read "do NOT just leave furniture here, you must register" . . . etc. I've wondered since then if anyone had attached any significance, religious or otherwise, to the fact that it had appeared so suddenly and without explanation. I offhandedly imagined some worker, upon returning from a bathroom or cigarette break and finding it, taking it as a sign that s/he should begin doing God's work and travel around the country preaching the word, from behind the mysterious pulpit, to whomever would listen.
Objects which are so clearly old and history-laden can conjure their own stories if allowed, and sometimes, I think, what I don't know is more significant than the potential truth. With regards to the Room and it's aggregate energies, this creates an aura about the place, abetted by the requisite black light, incense, music, etc. that to me hovers between joy, comfort, security, familiarity, empathy, sadness, finality and regret in varying chemistry.
Character or 'soul' became the prime requisite for any potential addition to the Room. Things with no history or significance were worthless. Used things, even if I knew nothing about their past, seemed more desirable. Each addition, provided it was of sufficient quality, brought a new energy into the Room. A pillow from the couch of my deceased Nonna (that's Italian for grandmother), an indescribable rusted metal widget that had served some municipal purpose for seemingly long decades, only to end up in the middle of the street in front of the house one brisk night (a contribution of my younger brother), paintings done and forgotten by art students I'll never know. Some objects or images from venues that I would disqualify out of hand I found to be, on the contrary, quite apt. A trip to the dollar store, for instance, yielded an oriental cane in the design of a dragon. On the one hand, it was a cheap piece of commercial crap with seemingly no soul to it. On the other hand, it was a real wooden cane, hand painted and jeweled with glass marbles, that someone halfway around the world had labored to produce using skills (for the non-automated aspects of it's construction) that I myself did not possess; skills that had most likely been honed via unfathomable repetition. And here it was, via airplane or ship, being sold for a dollar - a dollar - in upstate New York. What pittance could the worker who produced it possibly have netted for his labors from that one particular wooden cane? It rests, with another ornate cane brought back by my grandparents from some long forgotten trip somewhere exotic, by the door.
The object that comes most to mind was a wooden pulpit that my younger brother and I found on the curb in Newton on one of his visits up, years ago. It was painted a pallid yellow and looked a bit beaten up. It was about four and a half feet tall, had a slanted top for an open book, a shelf underneath for more books, and a wooden cross affixed to it's front. It was itself in front of a church and was clearly being disposed of. Without a second thought, we snatched it up and put it in the trunk of my car. I lived with several housemates in Waltham at that time, and couldn't quite bring myself to bring it up into the place. It sat in the basement for a year or two, occasionally I had to rescue it from the garbage pile on my own curb, since no one in the building claimed ownership. My landlord himself once lamented to me that he had personally put it on the curb the night before, only to find it back in the basement the next morning - perplexing because he had asked everyone in the house if they new anything about it and no one claimed any knowledge. I shrugged, said something like "that is odd" and continued with whatever I was doing. I didn't really know why I lied about it, what I was keeping it for, or why I even wanted it, but it had accrued so much character and had so many near-misses that I felt I had to keep it.
The pulpit came home with me when I moved out of Waltham, and sat in yet another basement (my parents') for a few years, until the basement Room became mine. My parents hated it from the first. My father (who, like me, is Jewish) told me unequivocally that it was 'disrespectful' (to the catholic faith, I gathered) to have it. My mother (who is Catholic), simply deplored it for what it was - a beaten-up eyesore that served no conceivable practical purpose and was creating yet more clutter in her basement. I moved it into the Room and it served as a great stand for my TV. I really meant no disrespect by having it, it wasn't displayed in any particular irony, I simply liked the character of it and thought it added something intangible yet of value to my space. How many sermons, prayers and eulogies had been delivered from it? The face of the TV, perched on the pulpit above the cross, assumed an eerie, incandescent glow under the black lighting, giving it the aura of a slightly creepy shrine to entertainment or some such. This was totally accidental and is illustrative of how objects can achieve a purpose and personality of their own, independent of ones intentions, in the right circumstances.
In the end, my parents finally got their way when I showed up at their house with an unexpected fourteen-foot kayak that I needed to stow there. They hated the idea of keeping the kayak there and flatly refused to unless I, in exchange, finally got rid of the pulpit. I really had no choice now but to acquiesce, but couldn't bring myself to throw it away or discard it (I also knew better than to ask my girlfriend if it could find a place in our apartment.). I drove it back to Cambridge and found a Salvation Army goodwill store on Mass Ave, and finding no one near the door, hastily dropped it near some end tables below a hand-written sign that read "do NOT just leave furniture here, you must register" . . . etc. I've wondered since then if anyone had attached any significance, religious or otherwise, to the fact that it had appeared so suddenly and without explanation. I offhandedly imagined some worker, upon returning from a bathroom or cigarette break and finding it, taking it as a sign that s/he should begin doing God's work and travel around the country preaching the word, from behind the mysterious pulpit, to whomever would listen.
Objects which are so clearly old and history-laden can conjure their own stories if allowed, and sometimes, I think, what I don't know is more significant than the potential truth. With regards to the Room and it's aggregate energies, this creates an aura about the place, abetted by the requisite black light, incense, music, etc. that to me hovers between joy, comfort, security, familiarity, empathy, sadness, finality and regret in varying chemistry.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Underground Week 2
The Underground space came to be known as "The Opium Den" among the denizens of the house for it's isolated, almost palpably dark feeling and the fact that my brothers, cousins and other friends would often occupy the room during the period each night after dinner, yet before we went to sleep (a period which typically lasts anywhere from 5-8 hours). Of course, the 'responsible' people in the house were sensibly long asleep (and in some cases, actually waking up) by the time the last of us finally stumbled to bed - typically my younger brother and I. The hours were spent talking, listening to music and watching dreadfully bad horror movies. Anyway, I like awful horror movies; my brother has lately eschewed them in favor of whatever phase he is going through - John Hughes, Jim Henson, Frank Oz, etc., and I'm reluctantly obliged to humor him.
The room is, for me, rife with psychological contradictions. It is my only home within my old home, the only space that is 'mine,' and I feel psychologically secure there within the dynamic and many-faceted social structure of the house. I exert a control there that I have neither elsewhere in the house, nor in my very nice apartment in Cambridge which I share with my minimalist, feng-shui girlfriend. For example, the room is rife with amenities - a large TV with all the accoutrements, cable, a mini-fridge, ipod stereo, black lights and many other things I would never had been able to drill holes in the wall or run electrical cords into the ceiling for anywhere else. It is also a bit creepy, and as many rugs, posters and other personal trinkets as I put there, it has never quite lost the 'basement' quality that makes it just a little bit eerie to be down there alone and fall asleep with the furnace blasting through the wall only a few feet away. At first I was annoyed at the 'creepy' factor of the room, but I've since come to appreciate it - it's a part of what makes the room what it is, and as such it really is a unique space with a unique feeling for me.
I also tend to feel 'immature' for want of a better word in the room. This is partly due to being at my parent's house - I left when I was 14 and haven't been back except for mostly weekends at a time since. As such, it's difficult to not feel like a 14-year-old sometimes. The trappings of the room began modestly enough, but ended up becoming something of a monster. In my parent's vast basement, there were decades of 'stuff' piled up, boxed up and forgotten, and much of it ended up in the room. A four-foot statue of liberty, framed paintings, public fire pull-box, chandeliers, statuettes and myriad other items mark only the tip of the iceberg. In the room, I found an outlet for some very odd creative energy as it became increasingly clear that my mother was so horrified of the place that she never so much as glanced in it, and my father, while he uses the room to practice playing music, doesn't care one way or the other. The room, I think, has become the receptacle of 14 years of pent-up tackiness that never had an outlet - the people in my life were just too tasteful for it to find one. Instead, I found an opportunity to dress up a neglected room with my brothers, actually devoting time, energy, and even a little money (for a craigslist TV, minifridge, etc.) to it. This inevitably would make one feel a bit adolescent - it is, after all, completely mad to actually indulge a juvenile, personal impulse like that - and it all contributes to the psychology of the room.
The room is, for me, rife with psychological contradictions. It is my only home within my old home, the only space that is 'mine,' and I feel psychologically secure there within the dynamic and many-faceted social structure of the house. I exert a control there that I have neither elsewhere in the house, nor in my very nice apartment in Cambridge which I share with my minimalist, feng-shui girlfriend. For example, the room is rife with amenities - a large TV with all the accoutrements, cable, a mini-fridge, ipod stereo, black lights and many other things I would never had been able to drill holes in the wall or run electrical cords into the ceiling for anywhere else. It is also a bit creepy, and as many rugs, posters and other personal trinkets as I put there, it has never quite lost the 'basement' quality that makes it just a little bit eerie to be down there alone and fall asleep with the furnace blasting through the wall only a few feet away. At first I was annoyed at the 'creepy' factor of the room, but I've since come to appreciate it - it's a part of what makes the room what it is, and as such it really is a unique space with a unique feeling for me.
I also tend to feel 'immature' for want of a better word in the room. This is partly due to being at my parent's house - I left when I was 14 and haven't been back except for mostly weekends at a time since. As such, it's difficult to not feel like a 14-year-old sometimes. The trappings of the room began modestly enough, but ended up becoming something of a monster. In my parent's vast basement, there were decades of 'stuff' piled up, boxed up and forgotten, and much of it ended up in the room. A four-foot statue of liberty, framed paintings, public fire pull-box, chandeliers, statuettes and myriad other items mark only the tip of the iceberg. In the room, I found an outlet for some very odd creative energy as it became increasingly clear that my mother was so horrified of the place that she never so much as glanced in it, and my father, while he uses the room to practice playing music, doesn't care one way or the other. The room, I think, has become the receptacle of 14 years of pent-up tackiness that never had an outlet - the people in my life were just too tasteful for it to find one. Instead, I found an opportunity to dress up a neglected room with my brothers, actually devoting time, energy, and even a little money (for a craigslist TV, minifridge, etc.) to it. This inevitably would make one feel a bit adolescent - it is, after all, completely mad to actually indulge a juvenile, personal impulse like that - and it all contributes to the psychology of the room.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Underground Week I
Underground
My space of choice may be verging on what is a ‘valid’ space for this assignment, but it does fall strictly into the category of what is an appropriate space. My space is my de facto bedroom in my childhood home which I visit fairly frequently and often stay for weekends. My parents still live in the house, in upstate New York, as does my older pseudo-brother, actually a first cousin who emigrated to the US from Europe. I have a younger brother who often spends time there on weekends as well, and he like I sometimes brings his significant other (and his dog) along. Other elements of my family are in town on a (very) permanent basis (like my grandparents), and still others visit with varying degrees of frequency.
A short explanation of why I ended up more or less ‘claiming’ the room may be helpful. When I grew up in the house, my room was elsewhere, on a different level of the house. I left for boarding school at fourteen and never spent all that much time there in the ensuing years. The room to which I had so identified with lost most of its significance for me over time, and by the time my cousin requisitioned it at my parent’s behest, I felt no real affection for it at all. On my visits home I would often sleep in my brother’s room, which neighbored it, or else on one of the many couches elsewhere in the house. This arrangement worked out just fine for me, and lasted about a year and a half. There was an occasion when another family visited my parents from abroad for several weeks, and those that had remaining bedrooms not in full-time use were obliged to vacate them for the period. Having no room myself anymore, and given the few people that suddenly needed to make use of any other suitable arrangements, I was basically relegated to the basement.
The basement is expansive, running the length and breadth of the sizable house. Half of it is finished and divided into several large and some smaller rooms, the other half is a utility space for laundry, tools, a workshop, storage, etc.
My parents, in an effort to make me feel welcome despite the shortage of rooms, did what they could to spruce up a smaller room in the finished half of the basement (now a defunct office space) and furnish it with a bed, dresser, armoire and other amenities.
Anyway, to cut to the chase, I’ve maintained the odd space as my go-to room when I visit my parents (despite their pleas to get me to return to a bed upstairs when one is occasionally available), and my mothers fox-news like warnings about “mold,” “stagnant air,” “radon,” “CO2 poisoning” and other concerns that would be valid but for the fact that the room has a window which is often open and my fathers alarmist home-testing for all of said fears.
The space itself is small and what I would call cozy, it’s odd-shaped accounting for the intruding furnaces and machinery that were walled-off in the other half of the basement. This lends a certain unconventional feeling to the space, with a few odd-angled corners and diagonally-oriented walls. It’s dark, lit during the day only by a small gutter-window and single ceiling light bulb. There are numerous little ‘nooks’ with cushions, seats or poufs to sit, further enhancing the ‘cozy’ atmosphere of the room. The room has two large wall mirrors which are skewed at angles that don’t really afford an opportunity to view oneself in them from anywhere in the small room likely to be inhabited. I think this is partly because I don’t want any self-judgment or anxiety related to body-image issues to be prevalent in the room. The fact that the room is in the basement also lends to it a sort of infantile eeriness – it is, after all, where my brothers and I grew up, and the dark, expansive basement was an unending source of childhood fear related to dares, tricks or just rampant boredom. This made sleeping there challenging at first despite myself, but I’ve since become accustomed to it and these days only face a vague, intermittent sensation of trepidation when I drift off to sleep.
My space of choice may be verging on what is a ‘valid’ space for this assignment, but it does fall strictly into the category of what is an appropriate space. My space is my de facto bedroom in my childhood home which I visit fairly frequently and often stay for weekends. My parents still live in the house, in upstate New York, as does my older pseudo-brother, actually a first cousin who emigrated to the US from Europe. I have a younger brother who often spends time there on weekends as well, and he like I sometimes brings his significant other (and his dog) along. Other elements of my family are in town on a (very) permanent basis (like my grandparents), and still others visit with varying degrees of frequency.
A short explanation of why I ended up more or less ‘claiming’ the room may be helpful. When I grew up in the house, my room was elsewhere, on a different level of the house. I left for boarding school at fourteen and never spent all that much time there in the ensuing years. The room to which I had so identified with lost most of its significance for me over time, and by the time my cousin requisitioned it at my parent’s behest, I felt no real affection for it at all. On my visits home I would often sleep in my brother’s room, which neighbored it, or else on one of the many couches elsewhere in the house. This arrangement worked out just fine for me, and lasted about a year and a half. There was an occasion when another family visited my parents from abroad for several weeks, and those that had remaining bedrooms not in full-time use were obliged to vacate them for the period. Having no room myself anymore, and given the few people that suddenly needed to make use of any other suitable arrangements, I was basically relegated to the basement.
The basement is expansive, running the length and breadth of the sizable house. Half of it is finished and divided into several large and some smaller rooms, the other half is a utility space for laundry, tools, a workshop, storage, etc.
My parents, in an effort to make me feel welcome despite the shortage of rooms, did what they could to spruce up a smaller room in the finished half of the basement (now a defunct office space) and furnish it with a bed, dresser, armoire and other amenities.
Anyway, to cut to the chase, I’ve maintained the odd space as my go-to room when I visit my parents (despite their pleas to get me to return to a bed upstairs when one is occasionally available), and my mothers fox-news like warnings about “mold,” “stagnant air,” “radon,” “CO2 poisoning” and other concerns that would be valid but for the fact that the room has a window which is often open and my fathers alarmist home-testing for all of said fears.
The space itself is small and what I would call cozy, it’s odd-shaped accounting for the intruding furnaces and machinery that were walled-off in the other half of the basement. This lends a certain unconventional feeling to the space, with a few odd-angled corners and diagonally-oriented walls. It’s dark, lit during the day only by a small gutter-window and single ceiling light bulb. There are numerous little ‘nooks’ with cushions, seats or poufs to sit, further enhancing the ‘cozy’ atmosphere of the room. The room has two large wall mirrors which are skewed at angles that don’t really afford an opportunity to view oneself in them from anywhere in the small room likely to be inhabited. I think this is partly because I don’t want any self-judgment or anxiety related to body-image issues to be prevalent in the room. The fact that the room is in the basement also lends to it a sort of infantile eeriness – it is, after all, where my brothers and I grew up, and the dark, expansive basement was an unending source of childhood fear related to dares, tricks or just rampant boredom. This made sleeping there challenging at first despite myself, but I’ve since become accustomed to it and these days only face a vague, intermittent sensation of trepidation when I drift off to sleep.
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