I like furniture. I think about it more than most; about its shape, its feel, its place in a room and about its history. I feel a sense of solidity in good furniture that I just can't replicate with a flat-packed Swedish delight (although they too, certainly have their place in my life). I catch myself boasting a little too often about how little it cost me to furnish my current home; 'Oh, that old thing? That was 3 quid from a car boot,' or 'No, it wasn't expensive, a neighbour gave that to me - just when I needed it, amazing!'
Before I moved here, I had been collecting things for the day when I was able to have a place all of my own. I would shoot my hand up at offers of some old table or dining room chair, and I never shied away from the opportunity to pick up a treasure at a car boot, junk shop or jumble sale. When I was at university, the National Trust office in the village I grew up in put a leaflet through our door. 'House Clearance!' it read. 'Brilliant!' I thought. As it turned out, this was no ordinary house clearance. For the past THIRTY YEARS the National Trust had been storing old bits of furniture, from tables to beds to armchairs to cupboards, in a barn at the bottom of the village. They had decided that it was about time to capitalise on the property, and so were selling every single item off at £5 a piece. I had a field day. Much of the furniture in my current home was gathered eagerly on that day. I have painted, upholstered, fixed and amended much of it, so that it feels very much like part of my life, and I hope that it will remain so for years to come.
It hasn't always been a simple act of buying a cheap treasure and finding it a home. My dad has a shed. The Shed. It's not your average shed, rather it is a beautiful stone out-house in the garden of our family home. At any one time it has been a study, a workshop, a dining room, a teenage-brother's hang out, and even a bedroom for my older sister. For the the last ten years, it has also been a storage space. First for my sister, then for me, and until about two weeks ago, for my younger brother. As we have moved from place to place, found our feet and moved our lives, our boxes of books and bulkier treasures have been resting in The Shed. My dad's desk has been tucked at the far end, next to the wood burner which acts as both the main source of heat and a place to warm the coffee pot. He works there most days, and with a smile he has spent the last few years reminding us of our 'things' that have blocked his view through the window to the house.
Now, we have reclaimed our belongings and Dad has reclaimed his space.
I feel about furniture the way that some people feel about shoes, or a crazy dress that they have no occasion for. I hear myself thinking 'well, I may not have the space now but it is so amazing and I'm sure it'll come in useful one day - you know, when I have my own enormous house? Or when I run that furniture business I keep dreaming of..?' And I love to make my mark on a piece of furniture too. So long as I'm not destroying some remnant of regency splendour or an austere mahogany masterpiece, I am happy to sand, paint or plaster wallpaper to change the appearance and story of anything that comes my way.
There is another sort of reclamation that comes from these projects though. Reclamation of my time, of my intentions, and of a sense of control and creativity. Being a teacher means that much of my week (all of my working week) is timetabled and structured to the finest degree, with each lesson mapped and planned and accounted for. My creative projects offer me more than just another place to position a photograph or pretty cushion; rather, they allow me to reclaim a sense of my time, to reclaim a sense of my own identity outside of the classroom and away from the demands of my work. I am developing a habit of getting up a little earlier, and of resting a little more. Of beginning my day with something of my own, and ending my evenings with creative projects; reclaiming a little more of myself every day.
