Could those grays be more beautiful?
I'm working on stairs that slowly grow,
a type of grieving place from an immeasurable time ago.
Think of the surface as breathing.
Give the line integrity.
Thick and thin applications,
like breathing.
Be ordinary.
Be trashy.
Both memories and art have a
forced sequentiality, and they function
nearly the same.
The “constructed” aspect.
There's the house falling apart.
The sense of it, the patina of use and age.
Link to the family dispersing.
where we've all gone tangent.

It was once explained to me like this:
There are elements (objects),
doors, windows, chairs, stairs.
There's an ordering of those elements
into rooms, into kitchens. These
orders are then structured,
where the rooms become a house.
Every structure has meaning.
I'm searching for the meaning of the house,
the home.