Dust On The Floor

Dust settles in the art studio and keeps a quiet record of making. Plaster, sanding grit and threads collect in soft layers that appear when the light shifts. Clearing helps, but it always returns.

The floor gathers dust whether I notice it or not. The carpet holds a memory longer than concrete would, softer but just as persistent. It stays in the fibres, hidden until the light catches at the right angle.

Most of the time I don’t give it thought. It’s part of the background, like the smell of plaster or the dryness in the air after sanding. But sometimes I pause and see it differently. Dust is made of what I’ve been working with, plaster, sanding grit, loose threads. The floor becomes an archive of the work, fragments that barely register but remain.

Sometimes the dust shows pale against the darker fibres and specks scatter like a starry constellation. A faint cluster here, a line there, a pattern that only appears if I stand still long enough. The carpet turns into a night sky, the ordinary rearranged into something momentarily larger.

There is steadiness in this accumulation. Each day leaves its own layer, even when it looks the same as the day before. I clear it when I need to, but it always returns. Dust is patient. It reminds me that no process is ever fully contained. Work leaves a trace, even where I don’t intend it.

The finished piece might hold attention on the wall, but the floor carries its shadow. Both belong to the same story, one visible, one overlooked.

--AM

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