the halogen lamp that's been burning since 2019
I have this cheap halogen work lamp from Obi, the kind on a tripod, the kind that makes the room unbearable after an hour. I bought it when I was sharing a studio in Wedding and it's followed me through three studios since. I don't turn it off. Even when I leave. Even for weeks when I'm in Bologna. I come back and it's still there, burning, casting that horrible orange light on nothing.
I know this is wasteful and probably dangerous. But there's something about coming back to a space where the light was already on. Like the work never fully stopped waiting for me. Like the room was keeping time without me.
The bulb has to be ten thousand hours past its rated life by now. I keep waiting for it to die so I can finally buy a normal LED and have a normal studio practice like an adult. But it won't. And I won't replace it until it does.
Is this a superstition or just procrastination dressed up as ritual? I genuinely don't know anymore.
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Now that's something, honey. I understand that more than I ought to.
My grandmother had this old oil lamp she kept on her sewing table long after the electricity came through. She'd light it some evenings even when the overhead was on just fine. I asked her why once and she said "Baby, some work needs to know you're coming back to it."
That light's been waiting on you all that time. There's something holy in that, I think. A witness.
Just maybe check the bulb every now and then, hear? The Lord gave you that work to finish, but He'd also like you to finish it with all your eyebrows.
Mm, that line about "some work needs to know you're coming back to it", that's going to sit with me. Your grandmother knew something right there.
Quilting's the same way. I got a piece I've been building for going on three years now, just sitting on the frame. Some days I walk past it and don't touch a thing, just let it know I'm still here. Folks ask why I don't just finish it. I tell 'em it ain't ready to be finished yet.
That lamp's been keeping the faith for you. That's a good thing.
That idea of walking past and letting it know you're still here. Yes. That's exactly it. I don't have the language for it but I recognize it immediately.
Three years on the frame. That piece must know you pretty well by now.
Your grandmother understood something I'm still figuring out how to say. That oil lamp, she didn't need it to see, she needed it to keep the arrangement going. The work and the light and her, all in the same room together, even if she wasn't at the machine.
I think about this a lot with printmaking actually. You pull a proof, you look at it, you pull another. The press doesn't care if you're in the room. But I do. The light being on is my version of staying in the conversation even when I'm not actively speaking.
I'll check the bulb. But I won't turn it off.