By Ellen Pater.
A stable surface, yet always changing. Configuring for different tasks. That is my desk.
It is where I draw, where I read, where I write, listen to music and drink my coffee. It is where I prepare my prints, engrave copperplates with sharp burins on a sack of sand, or roughen their surface with a rocker to make a mezzotint, tools of a trade that are now accompanied by my grandfather’s old wetting stone to sharpen my burins before use. Other times there is a microscope, to study and draw tiny things in my sketchbook.
But my desk is also where I amass my mess, with different brushes and a role of tape scattered about, notes and pieces of paper abound, there is a knife to sharpen pencils and one to cut pieces of leather, patches from favorite bands strewn here and there, a weaving shuttle and a needle case appearing from somewhere, and there are tissues for a runny nose. I am at times utterly chaotic. But without my tools and books around me, my desk feels naked. Too sterile; something important missing. When things are too neat, I cannot get into the flow.
The weather changes around my desk, the birds sing, the neighbors make their noise. To morning sun makes my desk bright and happy, whilst the afternoon rain makes it dark and somewhat moody. Here many things become, change, generate and are discarded: drawings, writings, clothes and coffee, you name it. Sometimes my desk is invaded by a spider who spins and weaves her web between my many things. And yet, my desk is always there, the same without being the same. Silently awaiting every new day.
