Every once in a while, I will use a single-edged razor blade to scrape the surface of my studio table to smooth down the minute furrows and ridges that I have made by cutting on the plastic table while doing my creative compositions. Last night after doing so, I took a photograph of the surface and thought about how many hours and how many cuts (all very deliberate) the table held tactile witness to. And of course, there are just as many hours and cuts that were not executed on the surface of the table. I wasn't sure what to entitle this post -- I considered "table memories"-- but I thought "wrinkles" was the most appropriate. After all, can a table (an inanimate object) really have a "memory"? But just like wrinkles on our faces, and the scars on our skin are a cumulative record of events in time, the cut-lines on my studio table are by-products of so many hours of my creative journeys across the years -- some fresh, some faded. When I look at the table surface and contemplate, it elicits a "warm fuzzy" feeling of vague creative nostalgia, like seeing wrinkles on an old friend's face (or my own as I look in a mirror).
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