My Office, My Self
Until I contracted to buy a house, I was resolved to decorate my new and bland office to an extent I'd never done before. I intended to hunt back through a half-dozen albums of b/w photography for a series of thematic mini-exhibits; I'd buy eight or ten cheap 4X6 frames, mount them neatly and levelly around my office, and every month, or ever two months, I'd swap out the last batch of photos for a new batch. In this way, I'd bring art and a bit of myself to the office, and I'd engage my new colleagues with something to draw their interest in me and my extra-office activities.
Now, I have a high-ceilinged, three-floored, four-bedroom apartment to decorate. And my b/w photography is the only inexpensive option, at least in the beginning. Granted, I have enough of it to fill both house and office, but I don't necessarily have the time or energy, or even the money for cheap frames. Nor do I really care to spend such a substantial portion of the next four months neatly framing and ordering wall-hangings; there will be quite enough of that in the new house, and I needn't add more.
This is laziness, plain and simple. I could set up my office with one group of photos next weekend, and be done with it. And perhaps I shall. But I'm not holding my breath.
After all, this is the office in which I store Valencia oranges and instant oatmeal packets for days on end, sitting on the desk, inviting my consumption. Finally, the orange ages, and I grow weary of looking at it. I throw it away. Tomorrow, I'll bring in a new valencia orange, like cut flowers, to adorn my desk until its death.
This also is the office in which pens and hi-lighters abruptly jump from my loose grasp and whirl about in mid-air to scar my hands and forearms (and all too often my clothing) with their reds and blues and translucent yellows and oranges. By lunchtime, I look more like a kindergartner with ADD than a prominent young attorney. Or even an unprominent young attorney.
I look like a painter. Or an utter klutz.
To everything except prominent, I plead: Guilty as charged.
Now, I have a high-ceilinged, three-floored, four-bedroom apartment to decorate. And my b/w photography is the only inexpensive option, at least in the beginning. Granted, I have enough of it to fill both house and office, but I don't necessarily have the time or energy, or even the money for cheap frames. Nor do I really care to spend such a substantial portion of the next four months neatly framing and ordering wall-hangings; there will be quite enough of that in the new house, and I needn't add more.
This is laziness, plain and simple. I could set up my office with one group of photos next weekend, and be done with it. And perhaps I shall. But I'm not holding my breath.
After all, this is the office in which I store Valencia oranges and instant oatmeal packets for days on end, sitting on the desk, inviting my consumption. Finally, the orange ages, and I grow weary of looking at it. I throw it away. Tomorrow, I'll bring in a new valencia orange, like cut flowers, to adorn my desk until its death.
This also is the office in which pens and hi-lighters abruptly jump from my loose grasp and whirl about in mid-air to scar my hands and forearms (and all too often my clothing) with their reds and blues and translucent yellows and oranges. By lunchtime, I look more like a kindergartner with ADD than a prominent young attorney. Or even an unprominent young attorney.
I look like a painter. Or an utter klutz.
To everything except prominent, I plead: Guilty as charged.
posted by Moon | 7/05/2005 11:06:00 AM
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