I have the dream desk. It's stark white, like a brand new canvas. On it, are all the supplies I could ever need - sharpened pencils, colored markers, ink pens and glue, scissors and scotch tape, stamps and a stapler. The bulletin board is pinned with family photos and a study of my favorite Monet. The little table top calendar, is always up-to-date. The desk, itself, is placed next to a window, overlooking a gorgeous tree. I could spend hours here - working, dreaming, sketching, writing. Except, I never do.
Instead, I'm always seated at our sturdy, dependable, brown dining table, amidst piles of un-filed papers, bowls of half-eaten cereal and assorted toddler toys. It's where I think and create best, because it's the heart of my home.
Working at dining tables, is a family tradition. It's where my mother drew every single one of her cartoons - from the early family strips, published in the local newspaper, to the political satires, featured in a national daily. I'm amazed at how prolific she managed to be, interrupted as she was by ringing telephones, tears from badly bruised knees, calls from vegetable vendors and trips to the kitchen, to check on boiling milk.
It makes me wonder if my perfect desk, is just that - too perfect. Like a blank canvas, it intimidates me, leaving me uncertain of where to paint the first stroke. My dining table, on the other hand, is comfortingly, messily, intimate and my work there, like my mother's, a seamless continuation of a full and happy life.
Instead, I'm always seated at our sturdy, dependable, brown dining table, amidst piles of un-filed papers, bowls of half-eaten cereal and assorted toddler toys. It's where I think and create best, because it's the heart of my home.
Working at dining tables, is a family tradition. It's where my mother drew every single one of her cartoons - from the early family strips, published in the local newspaper, to the political satires, featured in a national daily. I'm amazed at how prolific she managed to be, interrupted as she was by ringing telephones, tears from badly bruised knees, calls from vegetable vendors and trips to the kitchen, to check on boiling milk.
It makes me wonder if my perfect desk, is just that - too perfect. Like a blank canvas, it intimidates me, leaving me uncertain of where to paint the first stroke. My dining table, on the other hand, is comfortingly, messily, intimate and my work there, like my mother's, a seamless continuation of a full and happy life.
I agree completely Deepa...having never sat at a desk myself...my work space is either a couch in the drawing room and now because I am in Ahmedabad ad it's hot as hell and I only have an AC in my bedroom, my trusty and ever expanding tummy with my laptop resting on it as I slide against a stack of pillows on my bed is my work station
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