bloated.utopia

(Writing I did in October/November in conjunction/pairing with a painting of the same title. There is a fuzzy, shoddily-lit photo of it featured at the end. The first oil painting I had completed in almost a year. I resolved it oddly quickly, for me):

I am bad at wanting things, I am also good. This rules my life and every interest I have. I feel paint and fabric in my bones, but I mainly draw. Which I also feel in my bones. I feel a lot of things in my bones. 

Interior design, I feel, is plagued by over-politeness. In many ways. It becomes, in its wholeness, so middle class that it overplays its own respectability. People want it to be too tidy, too clean, too photogenic. Too purposefully meticulous, even if that seems to be the point.

Interior design is world building, and world building is messy. It’s chaotic and haphazard in a way that lives and lives on and on and on. And that’s what interiors do. Beyond any momentary image. 

The things we live with live. They live with us, they fizz with us. They do it all. Interior design brings this all together, to every object-occupied space. It extends to exterior design – the overlapping of it all. Creating a lattice of how we live. 

This goes down to the particle, the molecule. It’s atomic. It’s the every-kind-of-dust that creeps on our surfaces. Benign or illicit. It’s the desire-path of the chair we chuck-and-pile clothes on. Top or insides of draws. 

It’s the Bin outside Ormside, it’s the Light outside Loki. It’s how my existing got organised and arranged inside of me amongst the interior and exterior objects, and how they fit in a room. Or outside one. It’s the walk to the In-Post locker at beyond-three-am to grow my materialistic material culture.