I finish a commission. Relish the thought that another is ready for paint. Give the unit a last glance. And write down some specs so geeks in the future can wonder about serial numbers and bottom bracket drop. Then I clean the bench tops.
I started what’s considered Knolling long before I heard the term or knew what it meant. I like order. But people give me money to arrange disorder. More than 20 years ago my pal Desmond paid a visit. He mentioned Francis Bacon in a sentence.
It may have taken some time, but I remembered his reference and started researching via Google. Ya. Bacon’s studio was walking entropy. Every image I saw reminded me of the eleventh hour here. If shit isn’t sideways by then, I’m not working hard enough.
But I like order. So there’s the routine whitewash of surfaces. It makes me feel good. Read: it makes me feel better. It’s a gift of hope bestowed on me, by me. And when I unwrap it, I get another chance to tame the beast. To get closer.
Recently I’ve noticed no amount of order resembles starting with nothing. Which is the ideal. But my reality has been every bicycle bleeds something into the next bicycle. I try to sanitize the space. To forget everything. But it’s futile.
It’s more difficult than it was before. That simple task of removing everything that is not the exact combination of open space and small tools waiting for a new day. When I do this now, so much residue just lingers. As if to tease.
All This By Hand
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