Ideas are exhausting

This how that idea got out of control: the apartment had an absurdly large terrace with a thick concrete wall just above waist height. The concrete was tinted a hue better suited to the American southwest; it was garish in the damp and there was a lot of it. None of the surfaces that coated that place were soft and perhaps that was the point of entry—where the idea came in. The terrace and the apartment had a generous aspect to the east and a coveted outlook to the north: mountains and city skyline. A neighbour directly south introduced himself with a threat: don’t block my view. Points progressed to punctures.

There was a lumber shop at the end of the block so maybe it was the ease of material access; this has happened before. What’s within reach becomes suggestive—consequential—like the mound of old doorknobs Peter dropped in the metal recycling outside the door a lifetime later. They ended up in the metal recycling again but not until they were a major distraction. The lumber distraction was cedar—silver, soft and sweet smelling. A fence or screen it would have been more practical. Why was the idea not for a fence or screen? Why was it instead for a box?

Because. 

Because the terrace was so large.

Some of it needed consuming. Filling. It asked for occupation.

Because.

Because the terrace was so large and all of it was seen. 

There were no places of intimacy. There were no soft corners.

The box was no higher than the terrace wall. It had a frame made from pressure-treated lumber and it sat in the centre. The intention was always that it would have a small door so its vacant core could hide things like garden hoses. The top of the box was clad in soft cedar and had a recessed trough that was filled with native plants that took easily, their changing profile layering delicately onto the view of the neighbour to the south. The vertical faces of the box were also clad in cedar and they were pleasant from every angle. A disruption, yes, but in possession of some purpose. The box held its ground. It made new spaces and yet everyone asked what the box was, what it was doing there. It was exhausting.

Aaron took a lot of the cedar to his studio outside the city. The lengths weren’t useful to anyone building a fence and no one else saw two seasons of weathering as the perfect base for paintings. The rain drew a faint outline of the space where the box stood in the centre of the terrace. The plants that thrived in the recessed trough quickly outgrew it; the survivors were relocated to better accommodations. There were as many questions about where the box went as there were about what it was. Ideas are exhausting. It’s easier to call them art.