Some things about how I work are hard to explain in a studio bio. If you’ve ever walked into a space and felt immediately, inexplicably at home — or the opposite — you already know what this is about.
Throughout my entire life, I have been able to feel cities, areas, places, homes, situations, energy, people’s emotions and tension. For much of my life it felt like a burden, something I couldn’t control and while I was told it was a gift it wasn’t until I was in my mid thirties, in absolute chronic pain, attempting to heal from a terrible car accident where three cars hit mine, that I started to understand that I did in fact have control on how to navigate these feelings and other sensory perceptions that I couldn’t seem to turn off.
I worked with a very good life coach who taught me to manage my energy, and how to turn off the ability to feel what others carried when I didn’t want to — and also, if I was affected, how to clear it so that I could continue to only be affected by my own. It sounds like it was a short journey, but nearly 12 years later, I am still refining my practice.
Here are three short vignettes of three properties I’ve lived in, and my first experiences of driving up to them and walking through them. I use my perceptions with all the homes I work with.
Exhale.
I had gotten the lockbox code from the owner who was selling his two story Folk Victorian. I opened the door and the smell of dust, old wood and plaster filled my nose. There were old sheets on all of the windows, a baby carriage along with old cabinets, a beat up leather sofa and a dresser that had clearly seen better days assaulted my eyes. I think for most people it would probably read as the home where everyone gets murdered, but to my body, there was a sense of groundedness and steadiness.
Once I had adjusted to the darkness, I could see the millwork around the many doorways and very tall windows. The ceiling was 10′ tall, the floors were wooden, but some covered in glue. I walked through all the rooms, looked at the tiny porch off of the primary bedroom and was overjoyed at the originality of the porch rails. There were 6 fireplaces in the home, and what looked like an original well in the basement. My body felt at home in this house and I knew after walking through it several times that I was going to buy it and make it a home. Richmond, Virginia, 1911 Folk Victorian on 1 acre. I never wanted to leave this home. But I needed to be able to breathe again.
Exhale.
I turned my blinker on and turned left down a small two lane gravel road. Dust plumed off the back of my car as I drove down the winding road surrounded by tall trees. A stream ran alongside the road. I passed a few homes, nestled into the forest, saw the mailbox marked with the numbers I was looking for and then slowly drove down the mile long driveway, winding through the trees.
I pulled up to the two story 1875 cabin on 15 acres in rural Virginia.
I got out of my car, walked to the other side of the cabin and it took my breath away. A small lake was in the background, with a canoe tucked up on the shore, and the rolling grassland surrounded the cabin while the trees surrounded the open space. I couldn’t see a single other house. It had a screened in porch to watch the wildlife. A chicken coop was already constructed.
There was a large mound to the left, filled with wildflowers and butterflies. Never had I wanted to live somewhere so much. I was only meaning to stay 4 months but a year and a half later, I was awfully sad to leave, and excited about my cross country move.
Inhale.
I pulled up to the tiny ex-miner’s cabin through an icy alley in Golden, CO. I turned the key and walked through the tiny space. The only two doors were the front and the bathroom. The window in the living room looked out onto the homes next door, but for some reason the sofa had been turned away from it, so you couldn’t look outside while sitting. The kitchen had another window that looked out onto someone’s yard. It was quite the change from my last place, which had a lot of windows, and while close to the neighbours, it hadn’t felt claustrophobic the way this one did.
I spent my month there working — not from the cabin, but anywhere with windows that didn’t feel claustrophobic. The owner offered for me to stay longer, but I absolutely couldn’t live more than a month in this tiny place. Not because it was small — because it didn’t have a right feeling, where I could breathe and exhale.
Every time I walk into someone’s home — it could be yours — I listen with my body to what the house is saying. Not the square footage. Not the condition of the mechanicals. My body either exhales, or it inhales. And what we do with that information depends on who the end user is.