Pencil and ink on bristol paper
Sitting on an old dining chair in the middle of a field, generously giving myself permission to read, Roland Barthes compares familiar landscapes with the maternal body. “There is no other place of which one can say with such certainty that one has already been there.” If this place of the maternal body is so connected to everyone, then how does a mother find moments of solitude?
Time alone is often precarious, balanced between commitments like climbing the branches of a tree; never actually unconnected from potential interruptions; found in the dreary pilgrimages that are part of our daily routines. But maybe a seat balanced in the branches of a tree sometimes feels better than having nowhere to rest at all.