My memories of my parents home are deep seeded, fond and romantically well edited. The scented candles my father liked and the collections of “pretties” that my mother coveted are for me, genetic code: a constant reminder of who I am and from where I’ve come. I loved the way it always felt and honestly miss it, as it cannot truly be duplicated: memory however is a great facilitator of emotion. I am not one for scented candles nor am I a collector of many things, but I do appreciate the emotion of a space: how it feels, its inspiration.
I am very much a romantic sort, like my mother, I covet the things that speak to me and perhaps for me. Ceramics are a constant, their physicality and hand made quality endears. I have a few that I have managed not to break: markers of time, they are always in tow as I move from place to place. Though I have my memories, these pieces act oddly enough as preservers, buoys within the tides of time. I hold onto them, trust and cherish, these metaphorical bowls that contain.