The picture is my desk, a couple of minutes ago when I stopped searching Google images and reached for my Nokia 8gb. My desk is always cluttered, crowded and messy. From time to time I scoop everything off into a crate and try to get around to sorting it out sometime. This apparent lack of discipline has effectively enforced some rather strict disciplines. The post is opened the moment it arrives and bills get paid immediately, on-line, with a delayed date -naturally - so I don't lose any notional interest. Creative people seem to fall into two categories: the cluttered and the minimalist. My category is obvious, though I love the blank canvas of minimalism, which just waits for a few pieces of well-chosen clutter until... Well, at least I try.But the reality is that I tend to identify myself through my clutter, everywhere in my life. A dish of pebbles on the bookshelf, a box full of old postcards, those empty jars scrubbed clean of their labels and waiting to be filled with screws, or nails, or maybe sand from a beach I remember.
The challenge now is the prospect of moving home. My partner has had countless homes in the past decade across two continents. I have moved twice, - but within a 5-mile radius. My clutter has moved with me, the pebbles placed back on their dish, the box of postcards placed in a dusty cupboard and the collection of jars neatly boxed under the bed.
Now the prospect looms of moving to Italy, starting afresh with a joint home and combined resources, energies and... clutter. Except that I have to admit a sense of confusion in the way that I identify with my clutter. It's a strange sense of loss and a wonderful sense of newness.
It's coming to terms with all the impact of a new identity. Exciting.
