by Emily Runnerstrom, June 17 - July 10
Little Spaces is an exploration of some of my earliest childhood memories. As I made an effort to recall these memories, many came back in flashes of vivid color and emotions. I had to work for the narrative, and needed confirmation by family members who were in a better position to inform me of the truth, and edit my recollections accordingly.
Interestingly most of these memories occur in small spaces of comfort or amusement, a good match for the small space of my childhood dollhouse. It was built for me by my dad when I was three years old. This toy holds countless memories of playtime, and is now given the chance to explore the potential of alternative art spaces. As a nod to its former purpose and glory, I have included some of the original furnishings in each of the installations. Even touching them brings about indescribable memories to which I can’t give a voice. I feel them deeply in my gut, but yet they are always just out of my reach.
Spruce
One of the first play spaces I remember was underneath a giant blue spruce tree that grew behind our garage. The lowest boughs dipped to touch the ground and there was a hidden space only tall enough for children to fit underneath. Using pilfered household items and an extra lawn chair, I created an existence similar to that in one of my favorite stories, The Boxcar Children. In this space I was a pioneer and an adventurer in an endless world that existed safely in my backyard.
14 Stings
I was in kindergarten and as I walked the three blocks home from school one afternoon, I stepped with one foot on the sidewalk and the other in a shallow ditch that ran between the sidewalk and a chain link fence that separated the sidewalk from the junior high athletic fields.
One foot up high. One foot down low. One foot up high. One foot down low. One foot up high.
The next low step landed me right into a hornets’ nest that was tucked neatly in that small ditch. I panicked and as I tried to get the hornets that were swarming off my legs, I pushed my red cable knit kneesocks down. I managed then to pull my socks back up, trapping several hornets underneath. I ran the final half a block home to find the door locked and my mother gone. She was worried about why I was late and had walked a different route to the school in order to find me. Coming home she found me screaming on the front stoop. She counted 14 stings when she peeled back my socks with the trapped hornets. Into an epsom salt bath went I, and into our family lore went this story.
This is the narrative I share when speaking of this event, but it occurred to me as an adult that I actually remember very little of it. I know the events, but only with the help of my parents. What I remember are my up and down steps, my red cable knit knee socks, and the blue walls that surrounded our bathtub as I soaked in that healing bath of crystals. I don’t even remember the pain.
Pink Quilt
Many of my childhood memories are wrapped in homemade clothing and blankets. I wore homemade, simple smocked sundresses each summer, my grandmother made all three of us kids brightly knitted sweaters with hoods and kangaroo pockets for the winter, halloween costumes were never store bought, and my bright pink patchwork quilt that I wrapped around my little body when I slept was also stitched by my mother.
Before my sister was born, I had a little room of my own. I remember one very vivid dream I woke up from where I still saw a pink dressed witch peeking out of my closet. Then I was called to come have breakfast and she disappeared. I remember everything in my little room being pink, but it might just be that when the light shone through my window, the pink of my quilt was reflected onto the walls. It really was extraordinarily pink.
My sister was born when I was three and our little house (and my little bedroom) on Quarry Lane was now too small and we moved. My sister’s and my bedroom in the new house was bigger, too big to capture the pink light off my quilt.
Car Games
This artwork is the most literal in this collection. My grandparents had given our family their old car, an olive green 1973 Toyota Corolla. A good little car, my brother, sister, and I fit snugly in the back seat. A good little car, it had a strong engine that was sound and reliable. A good little car, but an old little car, with a rust hole in the floor in the back that we three would drop things through and then race to look out the rear window to watch them disappear down the road.
A lot of giggling happened in the backseat of that little car. I wonder if my parents knew why.
When this show is complete, the road will be filled in with drawings of the dropped objects and folded up to become pages in the car shaped book.