When I moved houses last time it was the first time in seventeen years. I had lived in the same place during all that time, seing myself as a restless person, yet refused to leave. It was I might add a beautiful place. When I left I threw away two car loads of junk. Or memories. I kept some in the attic. I can't believe how much things i seem o gather around me. Let's face it - I am a collector. How ever much I want to live minimalistic with only a few things around me, I will not succeed. And my husband has the same ambition towards the empty space, but he too is a collector and seems to have an eye for finding the unexpexted or seing poetry in the most humble objects.
I'm obsessed with memory. Much more than "memories". Memory as a place, places as memories. I am fascinated by objects and what they mean to us, but also their inner meaning. The presence of someone, something, objects and their connection to places and to that place in my head where memories gather and fade away as time passes. I have a drawer on the wall, with some of theese objects of memory. I made an inventory and the result is presented in my post "51 objects".
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