In our family home we had a large wooden kitchen table for a number of years. It was of solid build – it took a multitude of men to heft that monstrosity in any direction. Once it was planted it didn't move until we did years later. Instead of legs it had two solid support pillars which I'm quite sure could've withstood a tornado with no problem. I imagined the house leveled, debris scattered everywhere and these table pillars the only thing still standing on the bleak horizon. Between the pillars was a sanctuary, the perfect fortress under the sturdy watch of machine tooled surfaces, finish, and support dowels. I loved to lie on my back under the giant wooden rectangle and stare up at the guts of the table – the parts of it which no one but myself got to view. There were braces at the corners, secret components that allowed for the table top to be extended and a leaf put in, and even some mutant pieces which were the result of a repair job. It was as though the table was revealing itself to me. Everyone else got the surface view. They resided above ground. I was lord of the underbelly. I gave it a few scars, identifiable marks that signified my presence, although they were mostly accidental. In this corner the small notch where the metal barrel of my toy rifle nicked the wood laminate. Over here a scratch from the sharp metal edge of a toy dump truck bed. Finally the mark of a rogue sharpie that got away from me. Each represented the notch on the prison cell wall, the cave paintings of a long dead culture, or the alien markings of an unknown being. Regardless of what lay inside, once I pulled back the impenetrable blanket doorway I was in my other world.
In high school the desks were merely surfaces, and much to my dismay were attached to the chair arm at my right side. I wasn't even allowed the decision of how much distance I wanted between my chair and the desk. No, not a desk. A tiny slab. My discomfort was the result of standardization. When the bell rang I had to tear my legs out from under a wood slab that hundreds of others had used (and stuck their gum on the underside of) and had seven minutes to navigate out of the claustrophobic slab grid, then traverse a series of labeled hallways to make it to an identical classroom. I sat under a new slab that was pre-warmed by the student in the period before me. In Calculus this was the only source of warmth since they kept it frigid to keep us awake. Our teacher turned on the old AC unit attached to the ceiling by depressing a button on its underside with a large yardstick. Every time he picked up that yardstick to awaken what we had dubbed the “Arctic Mist Machine” (including during the winter months) and the thing thrummed to life with a sickening gasp, my heart sank. Wearing hats was prohibited by the dress code so there was no chance of saving my scalp from crystallization, and I could see the frost build-up on the surface of my slab. I began donning a hoodie, an act which landed me the nickname “Unabomber”. The only thing between me and the frigid blast was a thin layer of plywood. I would huddle my knees up as far as I could by placing my feet on the wireframe half-basket under the chair. I spent four years this way – a fetal penguin who would later develop a fear of small spaces.
After one of our many moves my mother became an HGTV binge-viewer and as such developed a constantly evolving taste for new furniture. The wooden dining table was replaced with a metal framed number topped by a single piece of clear glass. I was forced to abandon my fortress (as every good fortress dweller knows a skylight is quite invasive). Our cat never quite figured that one out. I'm attempting to eat asparagus and she is perched atop one of the chairs pushed up under the table licking herself in full view of wandering eyes. The new table is cold and unfeeling. It holds no secrets, no guts, no innards, no soul. The glass reveals every smudge. It scratches. Is this the new way to scar it? No. Its slickness doesn't allow for texture. The kitchen is now a place of alienation. I remember sitting at that table as my dad informed me that my grandma had died and finding no comfort there. I had to retreat upstairs to my bedroom. At least then I could hide in the lower bunk of the bed and pretend to be strong. What good is furniture you can see through? It's like plastic lawn furniture filled with water. An ice sculpture. The legs are metal so there's still some sense of solidarity, but it's as though the essence of the table was removed and replaced with solid absence. An invisible barrier that invaded that sanctuary I once held dear.
In design school the tables act as barriers between sleep deprived students and disgruntled professors. I've observed carefully during a critique when work is pinned up on the walls. As the professor travels around the room the students will attempt evasive maneuvers in order to keep a table between themselves and the critic. Our instructor is wearing a tie today which only amplifies the feeling of constriction - by both our lack of ability and the textile noose around his neck. He saunters into a labyrinth of sagging tables behind which we don't even bother to straighten our posture due to fatigue. He's casually eating an orange while describing the carnage we've pinned up on the wall. We have killed design again. Our heads droop even further and most of us are bracing ourselves against any nearby object for fear of falling over. We label our work as 'woefully inadequate'. Now we are exposed. Spread out what you've done in front of you.
I recently purchased a light table to assist in my design work. It's a mostly solid desk top with a cut out section of frosted glass under which I can place a lamp to make it easier to trace things. Warm light spilling out from under the table comforts me. This table has become invaluable to me since I chose it and is functional as a crucial component in my design work. It reveals my thoughts in real form by illuminating them. It's surface is littered with process. My life is still bifurcated in this way. The man I am trying to become is up here on the desk-top attempting to look professional, but if you follow the light down, far down, the boy is still hiding in the underworld, reshaping every aspect of the world around him. I have to manually turn on the lamp each time by crawling under the table to reach the switch. I often wonder if I'll see the boy down there and have to answer to him for my transgression into his sanctuary. Stacks of design books on my floor have begun to carve out new spaces underneath, and each flick of the light switch creates pools of light and shadow that define another layer of space as these books are repositioned. Occasionally, while reaching for a design annual at the top of a stack, I find myself lapsing into childhood. Did I just pull a moon rock out of a crater?
