My desk at work is usually clean. I like to see the deep wood color even though it’s obviously fake. I love to have color surround my space and white papers always have made me edgy. I love color but I can’t seem to paint or do anything with it and white walls are so obviously claustrophobic.
At the same time, this idea of a clean desk disturbs me. I keep thinking: a clean desk is an empty mind and I start getting uneasy. Where have I heard this expression? Is my mind really that empty now? Filled with the humdrum noise of day-to-day life?
Sometimes I watched my students doodle away or secretly write on a sheet of paper and I remember the times when I was allowed to daydream. High school was not where the magic happened, it was in my head. High school just gave me that time. The stories filled up inside of me and couldn’t wait to burst out. Papers and papers written in blue ink. Papers that would fill shoeboxes; papers that surrounded my desk and invaded my tiny room later on that night. My mind was never quiet even though my voice always was.
So when I see them doodle away or writing intently, I tend to look the other way like my teachers did back in high school. Life is not here trapped in these walls, ruled by standardized tests and unbending schedules. It’s what you make of it.
So empty? Maybe not completely. I don’t think I could let go of the beauty of daydreaming and breathing life into my art (the few times I’ve allowed time for it). I am just going to have to fight harder for my time as I get older and enjoy every last minute of time with my art and those that I love.