When I was a little girl, my family lived in a two family home in northern New Jersey. Since we owned the house, we lived upstairs and rented out the bottom floor. The attic belonged to us. My father worked for a demolition firm and brought home all kinds of paraphernalia from buildings his company was knocking down. I remember playing in the attic with reams of ledger paper, yellow pencils, old school desks, fountain pens, ink, old books, barbie dolls, old games and tins of buttons. And of course, there were my mother's clothes from the 1940's in plastic bags hanging from a metal pole. Even though we didn't have much money, I felt like I was rich. As an only child, I spent hours playing in that attic, creating all kinds of fantasies with what would now be called found objects.
Sadly, all of those treasures are gone. My father got rid of them when they moved to a one floor condo. How I wish I had kept what he considered garbage. Imagine the art journals I could have created!
No comments:
Post a Comment