There is a plywood crate in the corner of my current space. It has followed me across three studios and one divorce. Inside: every exhibition catalogue from 1989 to about 1997, the years I was showing regularly. Nobody will ever look at them again. There is no archive interested. But I cannot throw them out because somewhere in there is the proof that I was doing something, and I know how stupid that sounds.

The younger ones don't have this. They have hard drives and cloud storage and nothing exists physically anymore. I'm not sure which is worse, a crate of dead paper or a folder nobody will ever open.

I told myself last week: the next time I move, the crate goes. But the studio got flooded in spring and my first thought was the crate, before the drawings. So I am not moving anywhere, and the crate stays, and I am fine with being this predictable.