Like all disordered people, I like order. Or at least I like the semblance of order. Repetition is part of that order. There are horse girls and there are sticker girls says a boy to me in an unknown kitchen. He’s reflecting on the categorisation of girls in his class at primary school and I light up — and yet he interrupts — I always liked horse-sticker girls the best. Oh. Now I’m disappointed. Veeeeeeery dissapointed. Just as I’d started to invest in his distinction what kind of girl was I? Horse or sticker? he shut it down again, just as quickly — hi. I guess I should introduce myself. I’m Tilly and I’m from the un-fluid movement. We’re all on the spectrum here so we accept it as a given that everything everywhere is always changing therefore we like categories. Categories have never done us harm so we find them helpful, fun — ridiculous naturally, so obviously ridiculous; but how can you play four square without drawing lines on the floor? We’re childish. Order. The point here is not sharp. I’ve used sweaty fingers to smudge and I’m despicable for relying on touch. C’mon. I’m here to teach you how to dance. To the ballroom…
Welcome to the idea of the ballroom:
The ballroom is the metaphorical space you enter when you make art. In contemporary culture this might be called “flow state” and it should probably include truly enjoying anything because I could swear there’s something artistic about pure enjoyment? We’re calling this space the ballroom because no one actually _lives_ in the ballroom, just as no one lives every moment of their lives making art. Cinderella has to wait for the most specific of circumstances before she’s even allowed to set foot in the ballroom. And then she’s forced to leave at midnight. You might be similar?
Let’s consider entering the ballroom:
There are big double doors at the front where the lucky ones go. They decide “I will make art now” and then they step inside with the power of their sheer intention (they are probably well practiced or, it’s their job) — and then there’s the rest of us. We have to enter the ballroom through the back, through one of the “fake doors”. These doors are fake in so far as they’re labelled different things from “Making Art” and perhaps you’re familiar with one of them?
There’s one called “Smoking Weed” (I’ve heard); there’s one called “Unrequited Love” (I know); one called “Impossible Love” (hello darling); one called “Social Validation” (possibly); some swinging ones like “Let’s Get Lost in Something Other than Myself” and “Look for the Silver Lining” plus quite ironically “Making Money” which is hard to push for most but incredibly lubricate for some and yes essentially all of these doors lead inadvertently into the ballroom of making art and they do go on and on and on but I can’t possibly name all of them because I’ve only got access to some. Now, shall I take you to my favourite one? This is the “fake door” I use most frequently to enter the ballroom of making art. And this is the door labelled “Order”. When I’m feeling particularly uninspired I’ll even use this door to enjoy my music please don’t tell anyone. I shuffle my entire music library with the prospect of organising it into different playlists and what ends up happening of course is that I end up back in the ballroom again; in the ballroom of enjoying music. Back to the soft chalky nib of “Tilly’s Bookshelf”, I wouldn’t say it’s art but it’s a “creative project” that came from an attempt to order my bookshelf. My bedroom was being rented whilst I was away so I had to pack up everything I had and this gave me the excuse to create an inventory of everything I owned, something I’ve always wanted to do — (I still don’t know if I’m pretending to be crazed or if I’m just anticipating that’s what you’ll think of me) — and I counted 268 books on my bookshelf. Of the 268 books on my bookshelf I’d only read 36. Which is shameful no? So I decided to go through them — as you would with any pile of stuff – and decide what to keep and what to get rid. Writing my reactions down in a notebook labelled “Reading” was just a way to use 1 of the 17 unused notebooks I also owned (separate list) — but then, out of somewhere, I started to enjoy the whole process and decided to give each book a score out of 10… and then I decided if I gave a book over 5/10 I’d read it again just to make sure... and eventually I realised the great thing about the whole process (keeping track of your reactions in a dedicated notebook – which I think some people do do?) was that it allowed me to let go of the physical book once I’d read it because I’d stored away most of the nuts...
So continuing in the spirit of using everything I’ve already got I’m posting these emotional trappings online in the hope of finding people with similar tastes at me (in books, as readers).
Drilling into my book chest, dustily, once a week – until it’s empty and i’m done,
Tilly