always a little lighter in the sunshine

Spring is a slow gush. Watch a peach tree, bright pink blooms swell up, fattened by sugar. If we could pinpoint the moment the grass is born again we would have already. As if we could sit in the front yard and watch our clocks, waiting for the grass to turn green at noon. Luckily, it doesn’t work like that at all. Instead, new life slowly spills out of the ground and saturates the hills in color. The exact timing is murky, but the coming of spring makes intuitive sense; if there was life here before then it will return. 

I’ve been wondering what would happen if we intentionally integrated our living and working spaces? As if they were wrapped together in mesh and set down on the counter in messy folds. How would we spend our time? 

It’s easy to forget that spring begins bitter and cold and takes months to emerge and disperse. It is, at first, the lonely sprouts, adventurous and patient for the coming of the others. There is of course, no hardline demarcation of the seasons. They all blend together well enough, and we pick the fruits as they come.

I’ve been wondering what would happen if we took our combined living-working space, and turned it into a reflection of the local landscape? What would happen to us? What would happen to the local landscape?

This work is about that, but it is really about reciprocity, and loneliness, warmth and rain, It is about the place where dreams are born and where they go to die ( Hint: they are recycled ) and the possibility that we may each find a way to live that makes sense for ourselves and for the land as well. And it is, as the name suggests, about sunshine and the lightness it will bring again and again.