Moving is a very strange process, packing everything in one place, moving it to another, and unpacking it all again, it reminds me of closing down Express at night, folding everything perfectly, sizing all the piles, so that tomorrows shoppers could mess them up all over again. There is something that seems counter-productive about it all. It also seems that no matter what you have, how little or how much needs to be moved, there is always too much for however one is moving it. In France I had next to nothing, the apt. being so small, but taking what little I had back in two suitcases that together had to weigh under 50 pounds, was next to impossible; the same can be applied to moving vehicles. Moving also messes with your mind. My body is confused when I walk into the wrong room automatically thinking it should be the bathroom when it is now a bedroom. Everything seems to take twice as much effort, I waste energy going into the wrong part of the house looking for something, and then have to actually think as I go into the right part. Where did I put ____? is a question I usually avoid asking myself by being very systematic about where things get put in the first place. Then there is the conflict of feelings I get when I leave a place that has become familiar and homelike, a place that has taken a lot of time to make just the way I wanted it. I get excited about the new place, there is something nice about having this place instead of that one, but the differences play against my better judgment. What was annoying in the old place suddenly becomes nostalgic. I therefore spend several weeks going back and forth between being very happy with the new and unpleasantly over the loss of the old.
Art that escapes the art world and elopes with life.
Located in New York City, Escaping Artist is published by Alissa Guzman.