Lately I’ve been neck-deep in a podcast project I started at school. I edit the audio, publish the podcast on Anchor, link each episode to the small website I made via Carrd, promote it on my Instagram account. Bref, I do maybe 80% of the work by myself (we are a team of 6). And while this unbalance really pisses me off, it opened my eyes on something.
I enjoy making content.
Not all types of content, though. I like creating spaces and pages to express myself: this blog, my (rather tailored I should say) Instagram page, my Deezer playlists, my (abandoned) Pinterest page and maybe most importantly, my bedroom. I don’t particularly enjoy content containing my face, voice, body in general. I don’t even think I’ve ever considered my body to be representative of myself (that is a totally different topic, which I am still not entirely comfortable writing about). Once, a singer I really like said « Everyone is just a collage of their favourite parts of other people » I think that the real Me deep down, is just a collage of all these spaces I curated over the years, with (or even without) care, love and methodology. And so I consider each of these examples as representations of specific parts of myself.
But mostly what I think I enjoy, in fact, is the process of building these spaces. I like the process of setting up pages, modifying them until every tiny detail suits the mental image I have of it. Of putting out into the world a piece of me, like an author writes a book or a musician writes a song. Of course it is not always very deep and meaningful: I handle the school cat Instagram page, our stuffed dog Instagram page and a parody Carrd about the Ever Given ship that got stuck in the Suez Canal.
It is also very comforting, to know that most of the pieces of myself living out there, in the open world, are carefully crafted. It is a form of reassurance, but also of protection: I know that people will only be able to see the parts of myself that are not messy, the parts that are flattering and under control. Crafting these spaces allows to put some sense and order in the internal chaos living inside me.
Coming back to my bedroom, this space is the perfect example of being a representation of my inner world. An entire wall is covered by pictures, art, post cards, tickets and random papers, each reminding me of a time of my life. I collect trinkets and art. Most of it is cheap art, pieces in which I saw beauty when no one else would. All this, intertwined in memories, forms a web of life. It is a projection of a fraction of what lives inside my head. For a long time I disliked the way my room looked, too cramped, too full, far from the minimalist ideals I ad back then. But I’ve come to realise, I am not the type to keep a minimalist space out to make room for the inside. It is the inside that spills out in an unruly manner, in an attempt at some kind of reverse osmosis. It is me, and I should embrace it.
I have described myself as creative and artistic in the past. Not that I can actually draw, or sing, or play an instrument, or dance (I can, but only to some extents). But I create « stuff ». I don’t exactly know what it is, or if it’s any good, but I do. And I wish I did more.
