A folder of bank statements, photos of purchased materials unused, and the odd receipt from 12 years of underused studios.

Frustration grew and the block became more dense. 12 years of studios, gathering dust. Accumulating box-fresh supplies on days of optimism. Barely a painting I liked in 10 years came out of there. But a STORE grew. On days I felt I could face it, I'd go via the art shop, another new sketchbook where things could be different. Added to the stack. As years passed, daily good intentions were squashed by shame. The things that could've been made. Wasted opportunity. As I stacked the materials to eventually move out and give away in 2020, I considered the stacks were the 'thing'. All that energy thinking, money spent, shelves bulging in silence, were it. The monthly rent paid for that place kept the dream alive. Waiting.

"Whatever I was doing in the studio must be art"
- Bruce Nauman

This is a data relic.

I think of my grandfather, who after an injury from the tank regiment ran army stores, before turning those talents to running a newsagents. Something in the genes perhaps.

It held space for possibility. A message to myself that this is important and I will get to it eventually. Mum joked that I should open an art shop, a store. Yes, storing. More, incubating. For a time like this.