Work Space - Final

Transition

Just a few months ago, I was a student at the University of Florida, studying pharmacy. It has been just two months since I came to Pratt Institute to study illustrations instead. The story of where I have been and what I have been thinking about is depicted best on my desk. I have changed the way I used to use my desk, and these changes have been made along with the change in my major and my thoughts. As my major changed, my desk have transformed from just “the place to study” to something bigger.

My first dorm had a desk the color of dark chocolate, like furniture made of mahogany. The first time I walked in, the desk was the first thing that I saw. It had three levels of shelves built on top of it. The side planes that support the shelves were noticeably thick and high. The first section of the shelves almost reached the ceiling. I could not reach any of those shelves when I sat on the seat. The even thicker desk legs were grounded on the desk. My desk seemed sturdy, and it gave a rather full and dense impression to the whole room.

The arrangement of my books on the shelves showed where my interest lied. I put my favorite books in the middle section of the shelves: an Art History book, Crochet and Knitting books, Paul Klee’s biography, some illustration books, such as Red Tree, Man and His Symbols, The Little Prince, and some Korean and Japanese novels. To the side were the books related to my major: one PCAT book and few textbooks. The side plane of the shelf was wider and blocked one’s view of those pharmacy books.

Sometimes when I was taking a break from studying, I would look up and see all these books. Among the books, only the art books were lined horizontally, and never left their original place. Every time I looked up in the midst of studying organic chemistry during final week, there was a sense of emptiness in me. The way I looked up at the bookshelf mirrored the way I thought about doing art; I could see the books but I could not reach from my seat, and even if I got up and reached for them, I could not read them at that time. A sigh rested on my desk, and the question of what I was doing blinded me from seeing the text. The question slowly dissolved onto a page of my textbook, and I covered it with the thin layer of paper sheet as I flipped the page. At that moment, the desk became the reason for my silent crisis and my inner conflict about the path I am going.

I often left my desk in the midst of studying my main subjects. Sometimes I would grab for a glass of water, go to the bathroom to wash my hands, clip my nails, or just mindlessly wander off to my bed to do facebook and forget to ever come out. When I would sit back on my chair in front of the desk, my seat would already be cold; it had forgotten that I had sat on it a while ago.

Two years later, I came to Pratt Institute, and I had a better time familiarizing myself with the desk in my second dorm. First of all, I already had an idea of what a college dorm looks like. Secondly, my desk was a tilting desk; it was the kind that tilts up for studio work. The desk looked the opposite of my prior desk. Its surface was bigger than its supporting legs, and it did not have the overlooking shelves on top. The desk had a bigger surface than its legs because a studio desk has to support large sheets of paper or other medium which are on top of it. I did not expect to have a studio desk for my own, this soon, and its presence in my room made me feel so much more welcomed to art school.

I used to display many things on my desk. Some are special stationaries, such as colored pens, letter papers, and post-its shaped like a leaf or a thought bubble. Others include stamps, vintage photographs, and teabag bags. These were all placed on my desk in Florida. Those collections were an attempt to fill what was lacking in me, tools used to keep reminding me of who I am.  Today, I am more true to who I am and fulfill the purpose of my desk now. My purpose at this time is to do art, and for art, I need as much space as I can get. So on my current desk, there is nothing on it other than my desktop computer. I put some post-it in the drawer beneath it, or on top of a detached bookshelf on the side of the desk. The objects that rest on my desk have just a functional purpose, not aesthetic. I am very conscious of the presence of objects on my desk, and clean everything so I can tilt the desk any time without much hassle.

           Both in Florida and New York, my desk is the place where I stay the most. The reason for staying, though, is slightly different. When I was studying pharmacy, the eighteen-credit-schedule and work together were a huge plate to finish everyday. Staying in my desk back then meant I was focusing. I was fulfilling my expectations. As time went by, however, the reason for staying became more abstract and emotional. I felt unnatural and bare-skinned when I came out of the desk. As time went by, I stayed longer on my desk and held onto my workload as an excuse to avoid people. By then, staying meant I was restricting myself into a limiting box called desk. The box was big enough to cover my shame for listening to others and following what they want me to do, instead of what I want to do. Page flipping, scribbling, punching into my calculator replaced my painting, drawing, and any art-related activities. The things on my desk lied statically: some stacked up textbooks, the pile of papers waiting to be read, and writing supplies were just some pens and pencils. Feeling less confident and unsure about myself, I did not want to involve in any socializing activities, and my desk became my hiding place from the world.

My relationship with my Florida desk was always awkward and stiff. The way I was sitting was upright and I often got up and sat back again to ease out the tension on my back. I treated the desk like a business partner that I had to cooperate with. After I finished my work, I left the desk. I pushed my piles of study material to one side and cleaned off the space for tomorrow’s work.

To my studio desk, I treat it a bit carelessly and imprudently, but there is also a kind of fondness to it. It is like treating an old friend; I am less formal and friendlier to my desk. I can tell that the last user of this desk did not have a cutting board or a thick paper underneath their work when cutting their work with an x-acto knife. The desk has few straight, linear scars. I gave myself some more freedom to vandalize on my desk as well, though it is not as harsh or permanent as the past owners. For instance, I rub my eraser against its surface. When my eraser turns black from clearing charcoal marks, I use my white surfaced desk to clean it. I don't have to look for an extra sheet of white paper to rub against and I find my desk effective and convenient to be the alternative. I do not clean the smudges after. I usually like to leave them as they are, to leave the sign that I have done art on my desk. When I feel that I have left the smudges for too long, I pour hot water (I often boil water for tea and there is always leftover water) onto the desk surface and rub against the surface to clean the smudges. How I treat my desk has become more personal and with care.  

My insentient reaction to how I feel about my desk was shown quite evidently here. Georges Perec wrote in his book, <Species of Spaces>, that we live unconsciously, encountering things and treating the everyday objects without really knowing what we are doing.  I realize now that I lived as though I was “sleeping though my life in a dreamless sleep”, especially in my previous school. Perec Also adds, “where is our life? Where is our body? Where is our space?” If I observed myself a little better, just how I behave on my desk, I would have known more clearly about how I felt about where I was. When I was on the desk, I neglected to see the desk’s true function, which made me neglect myself as well.

The range of things I do on my desk and my usage of space has now expanded. Now, the objects move more dynamically and rapidly according to my hands and there is livelier atmosphere to it. So far, on my desk, I have cut and arranged pieces of color aid paper and magazines, painted my 3D models, wrote on my diary, made peppermint tea, read novels and memoirs, recorded my daily spendings, watched Korean shows and documentaries, checked my sleep calculator, read others’ blogs, wrote blog posts, and listened to music. My activities involve not just art, but also everything else I wanted to do for myself, when I could afford time for myself. My workload has not changed. If anything, the assignments from three studio classes take more time to finish than the assignments given in eighteen credit pharmacy classes. However, I can afford time for myself because I make a room to breath. I can let myself to pace at the rhythm I am comfortable with without feeling nervous or rushed.

I realize now how insignificant everyday things have changed on my desk, and I enjoy observing the change that is so evident now. My desk does not represent an obligation or a hiding place but the place where I can fully and freely express myself. I put myself in control of my own life and I make decisions according to what I need. It is surprising how I can see all these by documenting the way I use my desk. I gave my desk “a meaning, a tongue, and I let it finally speak of what it is, of what I am.”