Lately I’ve noticed my house has gone to hell in a handbasket. On the living room floor are huge sheets of paper with multiple story visuals, storyboards, magazine clippings, glue, tape, pens, pencils, story architecture diagrams, website wire frame sketches, props for a shoot, photography books, and old Vogue’s. On the dining room table: pencils, architecture pens, long white sheets of paper with careful fonts drawn with maniacal precision in pens, pencils, sharpies. Stacks of design books create shadows across the white table.
Our house is a hive of creative pursuits these days but a total mess. I’m in start-up mode which doesn’t make me a bad mother but it does make me a crappy housekeeper. I know I have to carve out time for it but when you are on deadline with a website to launch, a Transmedia campaign to finish, pending client deliverables, and well, a few thousand words of fiction to hammer out, it can get a bit hairy.
Guilt creeps in. Man, I have to wash that floor! I forgot I had a cat! Are those plants??
I was turning out the lights last night after a 16 hour day (a great day, but a long one) and saw this picture on the table. My son had an assignment to re-create fonts that had made an impression on him in his life and this was one of his drawings. I looked past the mess he’d left behind and just counted myself lucky I get to live with an artist. What an inspiration he is to me.
I’m working today but tomorrow, no really, for sure this time, I’m getting on my hands and knees and paying homage to Cinderella and cleaning my damn house.