I call myself a furniture maker, or perhaps artist when I'm feeling particularly bohemian. These titles suffice in business and float nicely in a sea of small talk, but speak nothing of what's under the surface. Like everybody, I wear lots hats with titles like, father, dishwasher, counselor, etc., but as religion is to a priest, I have one that predominates-PACKRAT.

As a packrat, I hoard and personify objects, endowing them with powerful ambitions to be all they can be. I view objects through the eyes of my inner child saying things like, "That plank has worked so hard holding up part of the floor, it deserves better." or "Why melt down that sign with the cool graphics just because the corner is bent." This is how I view the world. If you're one of those people who can't look a stuffed animal in the eye as you throw it in the garbage - you know what I mean.

So what is a person with these tendencies to do? As a young man, I did the manly thing and went with the current. I studied a familiar subject and later became employed as a laboratory technician. While there, impervious to the dangerous mind-numbing effect of repetition, I made wind gages from old syringes and plastic, and listened to the voices of discarded test tubes as they pleaded for a new way to express themselves. Given this, I reasoned perhaps a career change was in order and set sail into, marketing, graphics, computers, and later even real estate, anything to shake this monkey from my back. As I dove into each new job with vigor, my packrat tendencies were briefly quenched, but relapse was not far behind. Every business was ripe with odd bits of discarded flotsam & jetsam. Gradually alienated, I was disappointed by co-workers who couldn’t visualize all the uses of a broken calculator.

When I purchased a truck to easily transport all my newfound treasures, I knew it was time to quit sailing into the wind. I returned to school with the pretense of boning up on my programming skills, but focused on electronic repair. I reasoned that by fixing things, I could satisfy my need to collect and transform objects, even if it was just to patch them up and send them back into battle. Besides, circuit boards tended to be so colorful and full of interesting shapes and patterns. For me, this approached fulfillment, and as long as I was able to save little bits of electronic detritus and make new things from it, I was happy. I could even smile and repress a nervous twitch when someone would ask, "What are you going to do with all those burned out capacitors?"

I probably failed to mention that during this time of relative normalcy, I began to renovate an old farmhouse and managed to squirrel away nearly every splinter of the antique wood taken from it. It was also during this time I began to shun my technical friends and hang out with carpenters and general contractors. One thing led to another and soon I was sawing wood and driving nails at night, while inching up the corporate ladder during the day. I began to lead a double life.

Looking back, the neighbors all thought of me as normal. They described me as friendly and nice enough, and were even pleased when I offered to "take" their junk to the dump or "give" their stuff to Goodwill. After all I did have a truck! No one suspected that I was cherry-picking their garbage, frequenting furniture store dumpsters, or cutting through neighborhoods on garbage nights to collect wood and other hardware. In my own special way, I was riding the crest of the economic boom of the 90's, and was able to keep most of this in the closet until I lost my job.

All of the sudden, I was home all day, my dumpster visits coming only on trips to the unemployment office, but all was not lost. Now I had the time to organize my piles of treasure while keeping up appearances and searching for a new job. Since time was plentiful, I reasoned that I could make all those bookcases I'd been promising - there certainly was plenty of material. I believe I got my first taste of nirvana when I finally had the time (jobless as I was) to make artful furniture from my found treasures. As one piece of furniture led to another my job searches became cursory. It felt so good I had to look around to see if anyone was watching - certainly anything this titillating must be taboo of some form or another.

As I read back over this, I fear I've revealed too much. I have a vague sense of nakedness like the one I have when separated from my Swiss Army knife. There's no need to drag out any more of my dirty laundry. My work speaks for itself. It took me awhile to admit to the powerful undercurrents of my true nature but now it's all here in black and white. I hope that my family, friends, and neighbors will take the time to absorb all they've read. Maybe now I will be able to hold my head high when they ask questions like, "Is that my old doorknob on your cabinet?"

Tripp Gregson - Packrat/Artist