I have never fully understood how things become a part of a room.
At the start of this summer residency, we were invited to make the space feel our own. To bring in plants, photos, anything we want to decorate the walls and desk areas. Now, two months in, my space remains mostly bare with essentials only: post-it note reminders, monthly calendars, and a plain white wall interrupted by a swiveling glass window.
Maybe this is simply a mark of temporality; the desks of the core team are lively and colorful, full of design work, family mementos, random trinkets. Or maybe the openness of the walls remains a testament to the mindset I have consciously crafted over time.
Walls, much like skin, are meant to separate the things around them and protect the things inside. To draw attention to either is a conversation in comfort and interest. I am starting to understand how inadvertently these walls—the ones on me and the ones around me—function in compliment to one another. One speaks, the other is silent.
In the office there are two things that repeatedly catch my eye. One is a cat that waves its paw around the clock. The other is poster of an orange marked with a map of Findlay Market. These things have become part of the room in a way that if they were removed, the space would feel different. This speaks to the energy and multifacetedness of PL.
I’m constantly reminded how what we surround ourselves with are what reflect and color our outputs. These are things we want to display on a wall, the people we encounter in a space, the ideas thrown back and forth in particular ways. At People’s Liberty I’m learning how to craft these things with intention, and how to derive a permanent mindset of creative action from these temporary walls.