It feels like I never actually move into an apartment. I'm never settled. Things never fit exactly the way that I want them to. Why? Is it New York's fault? I'm thinking, perhaps, because of the god-awful and obvious reality of New York City real-estate, one can never find an apartment that is actually big enough for them. There are clearly ways to look at things in a positive way, like everyone who lives in some tiny, shitty apartment in NYC learns how to be creative with their furniture. Everything has two functions: the bed that is a couch and vice/versa, a dresser that doubles as a desk, the very classic oven-as-storage space, etc. But for the most part, having a tiny, shitty apartment, sucks. Things never fit the way they are supposed to, you can never have everything you actually want, you must constantly be making sacrifices.
For the designer that wants to constantly be making collections, for visual reference, or just because of the natural way designers have a tendency to want to collect things of visual value; it makes it so impossibly hard to be happy. Also, to create anything in general, a bountiful amount of space is ideal; no wonder artists prefer lofts and warehouses! But what about the practical designer that works a nine-to-five, wants to live in spacial convenience, and still wants to create? There is definitely even more, an impossibility at happiness. Sad.
So, in order to keep sadness by the wayside, I must keep moving. Like a shark. I persistently move my belongings around my apartment, organizing in different ways, making unorthodox uses for objects around my apartment. Maybe, if I keep everything "in progress" I won't ever actually feel like the space around me is way too small.
Here's to retaining the facade of comfort.
