A Textured TaleHannah Steens
1 SEPTEMBRE/SEPTEMBER 2010 WK 35Mercoledi/Mittwoch 1 Mercredi/Wednesday6am Gym5:30pm WorkAn account of my everyday life. A place where I write the bothbanal and zesty details. Whether it’s decorated with metallicmarkers for a special event, blocked lettered and underlined inred for assignments, highlighted for the first of the month orsimply penciled in as a possibility, my diary keeps me organisedand accountable.
I walk with them, run with them, play with them, laughwith them, cry with them, talk to them (which could beviewed as somewhat questionable, but I am willingly toadmit it). I can never understand someone who hasnever had a dog. Where would I be without a waggingtail to greet me when I get home? Would I ever get outof my bed in the morning to walk?
he prickly pile of tulle, the small pool of silk, theeatly folded tweed. My hoard of happiness. Aook hidden away from prying eyes, my little messf magic. Scraps and square metres of memory. Aifetime of collection crammed into a smallupboard.
Petals fallen from the blossom in the backyard, the small posyperched on top of my bed side table. I have always held afascination for flowers. As a young child I was always pickingthem and until this day, there is always a fresh pot of flowersin my room. It may seem juvenile but I still find myselfbalancing on the edge of street curbs, combing throughflowerbeds, picking lavender from my back lane, pinching arose or two from my neighbors neatly pruned hedges.
These feathers were woven into a basket by an elderlyaboriginal women in Broome. It sits in my room and ishome to an assortment of miscellaneous items thathave made there way into my life. Like these randomitems nested amongst one another, our sense of placeand identity are made up from both the small,seemingly insignificant and larger, supposedly moreinfluential things and happenings. We are a product ofour pathway………..