The verb “store” traces back to the Latin word for establish or renew, eventually meaning to keep something for future use. My studio apartment in Los Angeles is where I store books and ideas. My car trunk is where I store old receipts. My computer is where I store 593 notes and 11,934 unread emails.
My closet is where I store stuff I don’t want to deal with. DVDs, an old winter jacket, a humidifier I wasn’t able to sell on Facebook Marketplace, broken sculptures, my mom’s old purses, origami earrings I made when I was 12 and clothing that no longer fits. I’m relieved when I close my closet, pushing the objects out of view. I’m trying to resolve the relationship between private and public. I’m trying to resolve the relationship between objects and containers. I’m trying to resolve the relationship between me and my stuff. When does an object no longer fit?
I wake up at 6am to the sound of junk removal. I watch from my window as wooden tables and chairs are broken down and thrown into the back of a truck. I’m surprised by how much stuff has accumulated on my street and how much stuff can fit into the truck. Who did the furniture belong to? Why was it thrown away? What’s its future use? If wood is no longer useful as furniture it may be useful to termites. Woodpeckers poke holes in wood to store food.
I usually store things in piles. Dishes pile in my sink. Unopened letters pile in my mailbox. My to-do list becomes a pile. In college, someone thought my bedroom was a storage closet. When does stuff reveal something about the person collecting it and when does it just become a pile that collects dust? I wonder if throwing stuff into a pile is a way to avoid something. Eventually, every pile has a limit. I can only store so much stuff in the back of my car until it obscures my rear view window. I had to delete old photos and text messages on my phone to free up storage space. I can only store so much stuff in a plastic bin until it breaks.
When I watch sitcoms in bed I store away ideas around friendship, love and belonging. Which parts of these ideas should I keep for future use? Which parts have I just become used to? Which parts should I throw away? Next to my bed is a box of childhood journals and photographs. A 2001 entry titled “My List of Things to Write About” includes “poetry, soccer, teeth, friends, family, New York Botanical Garden, future, writing, fish, summer, opinions, science, feelings and frisbee.” Another 2001 entry titled “How Would It Feel To Be a Pencil?” describes the experience of being trapped inside a pencil sharpener for several minutes. On page 4 I write, “I get used again and again by my classmates. Sadly, I get put back into the sharpener several times. I am a lot shorter than I was before.” Why am I revisiting this journal now? What’s of future use? I hold onto a photograph from 1999 where I sit in my bedroom surrounded by origami, puzzles and drawings. A paper mobile hangs above me. My face is painted with a butterfly and I am wearing a butterfly shirt. It feels like I am trying to create a world out of my stuff.
Text by Olivia Leiter
Ellen Schafer received a BA (Hons) in Sculpture from the Glasgow School of Art in 2012. She was in the MFA programs at the University of Southern California’s Roski School of Art and the University of California, Irvine, graduating in 2020. Recent exhibitions include ‘Ha-ha Place’ at Leroy’s and ‘Plaza’ at Timeshare, both Los Angeles, as well as ‘stuff’ at Galerie Wonnerth Dejaco in Vienna. Additional presentations include ‘Plastic, plastic, plastic’ at the Mak Center of Art and Architecture and a duo presentation at Artissima, Turin, with Galerie Wonnerth Dejaco. She is based in Los Angeles.