Moving makes you question everything. It starts by watching your seemingly "not that much stuff" turn into stacked boxes that spread like wildfire throughout the house. It's dirty and exhausting and leaves you feeling strangely vulnerable. What is this stuff anyway? Instead of having two hundred books why don't you just get one TV?
Art books, art supplies, papers saved for collage, art from the past that you shouldn't throw out for some reason, fabric because one day you will have the time to sew again, almost a year's worth of daily drawings. And the sad realization that as an artist you are simply a maker of more stuff. Even if you renounce making art altogether you still must live with the stuff in your mind that wonders why you are no longer making stuff.
Creating sand mandalas that blow away in the wind every day sounds more and more appealing. Moving makes you question everything.
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