Earlier this afternoon, I trekked through this labyrinth of
avant-
garde plastics in search of a few items: an imaginary contraption for organizing the mail, preferably one that hangs from the wall; a supposedly simple
tupperware-
esque enclosure for my lunch; and other efficiency-inspired synthetic abstractions.
The myriad of organizational forms was overstimulating. The design and allure of shapes was seductive.
Ooooooooo. What is this supposed to hold? What can I put in this cool box made of recycled coffee grinds and evaporated pomegranate juice pigments? And so it went. The task of finding a form for my household content had been turned on its head. I was now brain-streaming images of all the cram, overfill, refuse, jam and junk at home, and whether it was suitable to pack into a particular carton, case, casket or crate. How did a simple trip to this store, turn me into a wardrobe designer...a clothier for my clutter? The marketing genius is not necessarily the appeal of the sleek plastic form...it is how the form--these PVC husks designed by Scandinavian architects with cool
eyewear--elicits a desire, a desire to eradicate a void, to fill a space, to frame and give boundaries, to endow us with the sense of domesticating the overabundant.
After walking around this maze and absorbing the aesthetic of symmetry and order, I resisted and re-imagined my legions of stuff, not as chaos craving order, but as commodities
au naturel frolicking happily in closets, drawers and cabinets. I decided that I support clutter nudism. Yep. I like the thought of all that stuff in the buff.
My father took this picture of José and me when we lived in Germany. The exact date escapes me, but it was probably sometime around 1971-72. I'm still not sure if his camera interrupted a moment of contemplation, or if I noticed the camera and then offered a purposeful pose.
Friday evening we lounged on the lawn at Wolf Trap National Park, and celebrated the final days of summer with a host of other families from our local elementary school. One of the mom's was the lead singer of the main act...Eddie From Ohio, a regional Folk band. The opening act was Big Great Sea, a Canadian Celtic-Folk-Rock band. The melodies were sweet, the rhythms were soothing, the breeze was cool. This was a finely-tuned farewell to Summer.
Earlier this afternoon, I trekked through this labyrinth of avant-garde plastics in search of a few items: an imaginary contraption for organizing the mail, preferably one that hangs from the wall; a supposedly simple tupperware-esque enclosure for my lunch; and other efficiency-inspired synthetic abstractions.
This morning, we left Western NY State and headed home...confined to 9.5 hours of scenic farmland, toll booths, books on tape (CD's actually), all before merging into the DC metropolitan area's traffic tornado swirling at the peak of rush our...bumper-to-bumper bedlam. Images of our recent touristic arrangements reinforced a thin veneer of patience. Our last day in Toronto and our last two days in Buffalo were a relaxing coda indeed.
Our two-day (one-night) trip to Toronto was off to a peculiar start as we leered at the cityscape and its moving parts. After checking in at the hotel, the Royal Ontario Museum was our destination. The price of admission was obscene. (We are spoiled in Washington DC by the Smithsonian museums and the free admission.) En route, the objets d'art along the streets were almost as impressive as the ones in the museum. We captured a few on the return trip to the hotel.
Sunday we loaded the car with plenty of baggage and drove approximately 450 miles to Buffalo, NY. The plan was to reconnect with some of my cousin-in-law characters, which I had yet to meet. Turns out we have quite a bit in common. Our first few days here have been a welcome refuge from the pace of life in and around Washington DC. I needed this vacation.
Carmen E. Rovira Calimano
