I have to say the old wooden cabinet in our living room. I keep books, little ceramic pieces and all sorts of things in there. I've always cherished the idea of a home revealing something about the people who live in it without them having to explain themselves; I like spaces and people that look as though someone has genuinely lived in them. Plus, I have such difficulty parting with certain things... I remember where I found them, who gave them to me or what my life looked like when they first became mine. So I suppose that cabinet resembles me in that regard; a little crowded, full of things from different places and periods, and probably makes very little sense to someone who doesn't know the stories behind everything inside it. But I know where things belong, even when they don't appear to belong together. I'd rather be a truthful, real person, just like that, instead of performing as if I were sterile prefabricated furniture.
The jukebox I impulsively bought and absolutely didn’t need. It endend up at my wife’s studio, where she writes and records a few of her stuff while at home, so now I get to pretend it was a thoughtful contribution to her creative process rather than an expensive impulsive purhcase. It suts the room better there anyway... too big for our living room.
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