I'm always fascinated by the habitats and workspaces occupied by my friends and acquaintances. You can learn a lot about a person by examining the spot where she hangs her hat. Embracing the fact that I'll be moving from Chinatown to South Philly has renewed my desire to luxuriate in some neutral scrutiny regarding my own living space, which happens to be in a very old, three-story house with blood-red floors. I've occupied this structure with a rotating batch of house-mates since 2009. A lot of things have happened; would all of these occurrences, even the events of the most negligible importance, have transpired had I decided to eat and sleep in a different building way back when I was a junior in college? Maybe. Or maybe this house is cursed. Or something. I will miss this place.
Here are some photos of my bedroom, which is also my studio. It was once packed to maximum capacity with art supplies, saws, miter boxes, boxes and boxes of fabric, half open bottles of caustic substances with adhesive properties, etc. After reaching a point of absolute and unbearable discomfort, the said items have since been moved downstairs to the living room.