Back to form

Memories:

“My brother and I used the bush in the front yard as a fort, which worked particularly well when it snowed. The branches arched and hit the ground in a full circle and the space left was big enough for our kid bodies. The snow made a complete canopy above us and we were entirely hidden from view.
One spring day I came home from school and my dad hade pruned back all of the arching branches. I was crushed and furious. My dad tried to convince me that it would grow back but he was wrong. I was too big to fit in a bush by the time the branches came back, and they had lost their arch.”

“I found a really small space beneath a parked car when I was hiding from the cops in highschool. It was cold, dark and rough on my knees. Only light was reflected off the black pavement. Cops didn’t find me.”

“After high school I moved to Paris. The first six months I was renting a room, then I moved to a studio that was 14 square meters according to my landlord, but I think it was smaller. It was five stories up with a view over the courtyard. I had a small kitchenette, a bed that was 70 centimeters wide, and a triangular bathroom that was so small that I could sit on toilet, have my feet in the shower and wash my face in the sink — all at the same time. I didn’t stay there long but still use the Paris apartment as a measure. For instance: ‘This bathroom is bigger than my old apartment in Paris!’.”

“I remember me and my dad visiting a friend on the countryside. She had a piece of land and took us for a walk. It was spring in the air and the birds had starting singing and everything was chloroform green. She took us out on a field and we walked toward a grove of trees. Once inside she said that 'this is my house' describing it as it was already there. A smaller cabin that was inspired by the shape of the grove. The location of the trees was so delicate positioned that she could guide us through the buildings all the parts. Entrance, hall, living room, kitchen and toilet.”

“When I was little I had a silver astronaut suit, all in one with vecro and special patches. I would wear my dad's motorbike helmet and with a friend we would shut ourselves in the cupboard under the stairs and pretend we were in space. It was one a triangular space because of the nature of the stairs and the light would turn on whenever you opened the door. The intergalactic cupboard contained 2 cockpits (laundry baskets), torches (very useful for space travel) and all sorts of planets (basketballs, footballs and tennis balls).”

“My parents were building a house, and I was snooping around the building site. I remember the lights and the smell of wood, and moving around in dust, and shadows cast by the pillars in the construction lights, fantasizing about how everything would look like later on.”

“My family and I would drive, usually once a month, from Minneapolis (hometown) to Madison (grandma’s house). The drive, I know it by heart, takes about 3.5 hours. Something about being confined to a car for that long, especially when you’re young, leads to a necessary reimagining of space and time. My younger sister and I would roll down the windows and wedge our blankets, pillows, and comforters into every open space until the back seat of the car became this dark, puffy cave. For the rest of the drive, the back seat would function as a hospital, air traffic control tower, barn, castle, restaurant etc. Something about that space, muffled but still connected to the movement of the four wheels racing over the pavement below, made time fly. We ‘set up camp’ 10 minutes onto I-94 East and the next thing we knew we were slowly turning left onto Fuller Drive, grandma already outside waving. Home away from home, home on 4 wheels, mobile home, etc...”

“I'm going to write in Spanish because my spatial memory is absolutely connected to my identity. I am Venezuelan, from Caracas, the capital of Venezuela. Caracas, during its modern period, was created in the image of Europe, the Europe of the 1950s. So the spaces that I inhabited, where I was born and raised, the homes of my friends and family had these characteristics: big spaces made to enjoy being in the home. This was a luxury in my city. This is how we understood life. The middle class in my city lives in art deco apartments, made with cement and wood, spaces with natural light from the valley, surrounded by old trees and a cool breeze. We lived to share our home and our table. So too, I went to the central Venezuelan University designed by Carlos Raul Villanueva. Now I live in NYC, in small spaces that force us to venture outside the home.”

“My mother always had long skirts that hovered just above the floor. One of my first memories is that I crawl under the skirt and stay there, just like in a tent. Maybe while mother was doing some kind of stationary chore. It was a special feeling, warm and half dark and smelling skin.”

“A special event regarding different rooms and homes took place during an autumn when I willingly left my apartment to let it become a temporary home for my daughters family, including a newborn son. A big water leak in their kitchen had made them acutely homeless. I packed only the essentials (bed linen, towels, some clothes, olive oil and my coffee jar) in a bag and went from room to room at friends places while they were away or had an extra room. I stayed in six different places in total. The time at each place varied from a couple of nights to 2–3 weeks. On each spot I made my own space: the bed, a table, and a piece of the countertop in the kitchen. That was where I felt at home. It was fun to explore new routines and discover new views, streets and blocks. Where’s the bus stop? Where’s the grocery store? Everyone thought that I was extremely kind to leave my apartment for so long. I thought I had a very important experience. To be away like this actually cheered me up and made me reflect on what a home is, and how many belongings that really are necessary. As time went on, the items left in my bag became fewer. The most interesting thing with living in these borrowed rooms was that in the moment the owner stepped over the doorsill, my feeling of 'my home' in their place disappeared. Then I became a guest.”

“My first night in my apartment alone — which I would keep, alone — after my roommate moved out. Space is so sacred in New York and I finally had some. It was filthy, and I swept and mopped all of it. Then I made dinner and lit candles. After dinner, I turned of all the lights and walked the empty space (all while drinking a bottle of wine). It was one of the only nights the apartment would SOUND empty. I slept on a mattress on the floor and woke up completely elated in an empty sunny space and I had my first coffee. It was awesome.”

“In the village I grew up in was a playhouse built for my father's cousin, long before I was born. The man who built it used himself as a benchmark in the construction — the cabin sides are the same length as the man was tall. So even if it is long since he died, one can see how long he was, and his body is thus still here somehow.”

“When being a kid a carpet would be a resting place. You could just lie down on any carpet or even better a room with wall to wall carpeting - the endless sofa experience. First there would be the color of the carpet as you would put your head down to chill followed by a soft darkness and whatever movie was playing in your head.”

“I have one giant mangled Memory of Club Entry Bottleneck Situation. Some things are always the same no matter what club I’m at and where. I’m ALWAYS freezing and dying to get in so i can get out of the cold. There’s always the same set of protocols that I have to adhere to in order to placate the club gods so I can get inside and lose my mind. It’s like standing in security lines at the airport but I am not guaranteed a seat on the plane. First: ID. Second: guestlist/ticket. Third: bag check (this is scary). There is a desperate sense of urgency to get in because I’m fucking freezing and so excited about what’s inside. It doesn’t matter that it might suck, I’m putting total faith in the nightclub industrial machine. The bouncers are bundled up and no bullshit. Once my ID is OK’ed, I pass through the first set of doors. Now I am warm and in a dark-ish hallway/waiting area, the walls are painted glossy black and glossy dark red, the ceilings are high. It smells like the backstage of a theater, like sawdust. And maybe cigarettes. Next the doorperson standing with a clipboard in front of a black leather bar stool with some holes in it that have been patched with electrical tape asks me if I am on the list which is another test I have to pass. If I am I get a stamp and pass go but if I am not I have to make a bonus trip to the ticket window, perform a transaction with someone sitting on the other side of a table or a glass window, where I get a small raffle ticket. Everything is about being polite and not antagonising anyone. It’s repressed and tense but also loud and chaotic. The closer I get the more I can hear and feel the music. The bass is muffled and distorted and shakes the door frames, you can hear glass panes vibrating and anything mounted on the walls is shaking like in a mild earthquake. My only indication of what’s going on inside is what the people coming out of the double doors look like when they are sweating and exhausted I am more excited but if they’re too fresh looking im less confident. Once you start in this assemblyline you can’t turn back and I’m carried along by the current of people behind me and bouncers yelling and people cutting in and out. Everyone is shouting over everyone. Someone rifles through my bag loosely but expertly, they cup the bottom and shine the light inside to confirm I am not dangerous. I smack into people on their way out who tell me they’re coming back in 5 minutes just need to get a slice of pizza and I know I won’t see them again. Once I’m over all the hurdles I am permitted to leave this warm dark holding room. I open the final set of doors and the sound clarifies.”

“I remember playing with a saucepan. I had the face in the pot and made different sounds. It was almost like a small little hut where only a face could fit. Then suddenly the pan stuck around my face! It was like a vacuum, like with a suction cup! I heard my mother's panicked screams from the other side of the saucepan and became paralyzed so I could not breathe. Then it came off after about 5 seconds. Since then I have not been playing with pots ...”

“All the times I built in snow, with winding passages and tight areas with small niches for tealights and to sit in. We built replicas of features from the 'real' world but also models of fantasy worlds. I remember the thrill of crawling through the narrow aisles, it was claustrophobic but nice to then come out in a large hall.”

“When I was a kid I spent the summers in my grandmother and grandfathers place in the country side of Sweden. Me and the girl next door once sneaked away to hide under an overturned canoe and kissed. We hid for the adults and made it our own castle made of yellow polyester plastic and walls of reeds moving in the wind. It was humid and hot almost tropical.”

“My mom was cleaning the floor and vacuumed the sofa. All the cushions and pillows was piled up, and all the piles were taller than me. Our flat was high up in the building so a lot of light was flowing in, and the air became sort of thick and glowing of all the dust and particles that was set in motion. Without all the pillows, the sofa wasn’t a sofa anymore and there were no rules on how to behave in this new piece of furniture. The fabric below the cushions was black and shiny, unlike the sturdy and bright orange fabric of the cushions. The body could slip and slide and climb on all surfaces. It’s like the gaps in this memory is filled with the constant wailing of the vacuum cleaner and the blinding, compact air. ”

“I can't deepen/create a connection to a place anymore. I can't afford it, neither emotionally nor economically. To move your home... I can't use the word ‘home’ for the places I reside in during a longer period of time (that means 3–6 months). Home is a secure place where you eat, sleep, and rest. My ‘homes’ are cheap rooms that I'm forced to rent during short terms by strangers, friends and acquaintances acquaintances. It's never places that I've chosen, it's my wallet that chooses for me. And these places are only temporary. That's why it's to toilsome to let myself feel that these places are homes, because I know that I soon will have to leave the room or place, as my money or the contract decides it for me.”

“It is February 11, 2016, the coldest day of the year thus far, though Saturday is forecast to be colder. It’s a Thursday. Today the New York Times ran a story entitled 'Gravitational Waves Detected, Confirming Einsteins Theory'. For me, time has a location in space around me. I inhabit the present, but the past and future fan out in spirals around me so I can point and indicate where, for example, 1990 is. I thought everyone experienced time like me until very recently. Time is theoretical, after all, and to theorize about time seems to me to be to visualize it. The language of time is spatial, gravity is a function of motion, and time is a product of motion and motion occurs in space — a spatial practice. And for this reason it seems to me that Einstein must also have experienced time as spatial. Today, everything converges.”

“Sitting up in my bed for the first time since properly moving, I regarded the low ceilings of my new apartment and its one odd wood-paneled wall. I looked at all the compartments and sheleves I had built to tidily hold all of my books and art, and thought that it reminded me pleasantly of the cabin of a ship. ”

“Grandmothers 'kotatsu' — a low wooden table one sits at with your legs stretched out underneath. The table has a heavy quilted blanket as a 'skirt' to cover your lap. Inside/under the table is a warm heater! The coziest place to take a nap. Everything can occur at this table — eat a hot dinner, drink, chat, like a fireplace for your legs!”

“The end of the lot of a trailer park:
—Fiberglass boat
—Tarp
—Wooden structure surrounding boat, supporting tarp
—First physical 'explorations'/hiding place”

“My first bedroom from age 0-5 was in an old farmhouse in Ohio. It was small with a hardwood floor. There was a twin bed, and above the bed were two framed prints (black and white images of animals wearing clothes in human landscapes). There was a window on the adjacent wall. I remember soft, summer sunlight and a breeze. I think the walls were covered in old wallpaper that was peeling. Every night when it was dark and I was alone and awake, I heard loud scratching sounds in the wall behind my head. My moms said not to worry — it was just mice and squirrels in the walls.”

“The smell like apricots. We were looking for that cheeto-orange color and I went off the trail on the hunt for chanterelles. I kept going further, over, under, over, under log after log. To move through the forest, hunting for mushrooms, is to be aware of all your senses. I passed 3 large boulders, lookes up at a birch tree to se some chaga out of reach. Under me was a soft bed of dead, wet leaves, then I saw them. Suddenly, I couldn't step anywhere. I was in a small basin full of dead leaves, and my precious black trumpets.”

“A wooden gate blocked a room where no children could enter. The room was a white setting room that was only used on special occasions. The carpet was white, oriental with blue details and fringe. To the left was a wooden upright piano. Nearby was a french lone seater with golden trim. The side tables were golden with teal and blue details. The window was lit up by glass curved windows where a white striped chaise sat. it was a beautiful room that no one could enjoy.”