Invisible Architecture
[spice drawers]
These have been part of my kitchen for years, filled with the spices I use the most.
Each drawer is now infused with spice and the wood cured with constant use.
Smells distract your tastebuds. Of all the senses, smell creates evocative memories in a way that vision and sound cannot.
When I'm cooking, I know where every spice is in these drawers.
But if I forget all I need to do is open the drawer just a fraction and the image and aroma of that spice seeps out, surrounding me with images of meals I've cooked and shared. The traces of which linger like smoke.
As my eyes instinctively close in the presence of these aromas, the kitchen disappears....
My Own Sky
[plants, image?]
The path to my studio contains my own sky...
I walk out to my studio very early in the morning before my family is awake, before the sun rises. Or just after dinner in the evening, after the sun has set.
The path to the studio is curved and the destination is not immediately visible. Our valley is protected from the city lights and sounds so as I close the front door and turn my back on the house, I become engulfed in the night sky with the sounds and smells of the plants and trees.
This moment, when the house is behind me and the studio is not yet visible, is when I'm in limbo between my life as a mother and my life as an architecture student.
As I make my way along this path, using my memory and the sounds of the trees to stay on track, I'm immersed in the dark; the distinction between me and the night sky is blurred.
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