How Not to Pack, Part 2: The Fiasco Begins

Part 2 of 4 (or so)

It is Wednesday and the packers will arrive on Monday to box things up. Next Tuesday everything except the suitcases will descend by an eight-story conveyer belt out the living room window into the truck.

I finally get myself to decide what will go in the air shipment versus by slow boat, and what we will take on our trip to Scotland on the way home. First things first: what art supplies do I want to carry with me? This is an excellent time to leave the apartment and spend several hours on my perpetual search for the perfect handbag.

I think I've found it this time: a great bag with lots of pockets and plenty of room for sketchbooks, though I don’t care so much for the garish silver zippers.

On Thursday, Matt calls from France to ask whether I've finished the inventory for the insurance company. The sense of guilt and dread that this engenders makes me realize that silver paint could really complement those zippers.

As usual, fish are the perfect theme.

Not that I don’t make every miserable effort I'm capable of to actually do that inventory. I start in on the contents of a closet but get caught up in considering what should be given away, or sold, or just put in a different closet for packing.

For example, is this tea worth keeping?

I have to make a cup to decide. It is not very good, but the container proves excellent for holding pencils that are too short for the regular containers, but too long to throw out.

By the way, it may have occurred to you that taking photos and blogging about what you are doing is yet another way not to pack.

I need some art therapy to recover from the trauma of cleaning out the closet. The silver Sharpie is not quite what I want on that purse. Silver paint from the spray can would be closer to the silver of the zippers. If I could just get it from the can into this old film canister. Of course, I hold it far out of the front window so as not to get paint in the living room. Oh! Silver paint sprayed directly into an itsy-bitsy film canister ricochets out and gets all over my arm as well as the lovely tiles around the window!

So I add a very quick trip to the hardware store around the corner to the to-do list that I never made for this move. When I ask the kind man behind the counter who has become fond of me and all the money I have spent there over the past three years for the type of paint remover that works on spray paint, and my arm is covered with the exact color paint that is favored by graffiti artists in Madrid, well, he looks at me more shrewdly than in the past.

I am up at 5:00 Friday morning. Finally, the thought that the moving company will be at our apartment on Monday acts as a tonic to my brain. I am in just enough of a panic to actually focus on the task, and not so much as to be incapacitated. I sort out things to send on the air shipment and put them in a corner; suitcases for the trip to Scotland go in the closet. I resolve to spend the whole day on an inventory.

At 8:45 the doorbell buzzes. On the intercom, a man is asking me something. I can’t make it out, and he does not say our names. It must be for someone else, so I hang up. He buzzes again. He seems quite persistent, and I catch the word moverse. Maybe this has something to do with the moving company? I buzz him in.

A nice young South American man looks at me with a bit of surprise and asks (in Spanish), "Is this not Paseo del Pintor Rosales, 26?" They are there to start packing for the move.

"Today?"
" Yes."
" Today?"
"Yes."
"Today?!!"

I leave the surprised fellow to race down the hall, knocking on girls’ doors, “The movers are coming!”

"When?" asks a groggy Adele.

“Now. They’re here!”

Claire comes appears from her room (which leads directly to the back hall), having thrown a towel over herself. “Mom, there are men knocking on the back door of my room.”

This might be it. My lack of organization and planning might actually have led to a fiasco this time. It is time to take out the plastic doll of Munch's Screamer:

 

 Stay tuned for How Not to Pack: The Teeth of the Storm.

How Not to Pack, Part 1: The Advanced Workshop

Part 1 of 4 (or so)

For the beginner's version of How Not to Pack, see my previous post from November 2010: How not to Pack when sent Packing.

I feel that I am qualified to write the Advanced version as, three years ago we relocated, in a most inefficient, inelegant style, from Concord, Massachusetts to Madrid, and since then we have had countless small trips and three of 2 to 3 months duration, yet, I detect no perceptible improvement in my planning, organizing and execution of this move.

A few months ago, I was sharing with a friend of mine, Bernadette, a terrifically competent, efficient woman, much experienced in relocating, about the complexity of our upcoming move, with over three tons of possessions to be shipped to the States by boat, another 500 pounds by air, suitcases to take with us on a trip to Scotland on the way back. Bernadette told me that she starts several months in advance with such things as writing up lists of to-dos, getting rugs cleaned, finding buyers for whatever will not be moved, getting doctor appointments out of the way, and so forth. “My husband has no idea what a job it is. Or the kids. I do everything.”

Personally, I start the process of procrastination several months in advance. The effort of ignoring the inevitable, the dread of facing responsibility, and the guilt of avoiding it, coupled with the terror that procrastination will culminate in a real fiasco – all these are excellent fuel to the creative process.

This hand-made book, mostly inspired as a present for Claire’s 18th birthday in May, was a fabulous way to occupy my mind for two weeks and prevent the thoughts of preparing for the move to take hold. It's based on the children's book "Mommy, would you love me if..." Here are a few of the pages:



The front cover, done with a stencil that Claire made.

Still, as the clock crept forward, the reality of needing to pack and the fear of a fiasco become more pressing. I considered the odious process of disassembling my studio, packing supplies, repairing the walls and getting the paint off the floor.

Due to allergies, I had packed up my paints and pastels early, and resigned myself to not having this major distraction when it came time to move. But now, as I scanned the scene, I noticed the low toxicity pigments I had ordered a few weeks ago. I decided it was the right moment to pull a few things back out so I could see if they worked.

 

 

When I mixed the pigments with walnut oil, the result was a lovely paint without noxious fumes that I could work with right in the house. With this painting set up in the living room, I had a constant alternative to planning and preparing the move.

"Memories of Madrid", walnut oil paint on board, 50in x 30in

I wanted to continue, but the anxiety that this move could be worse than bad overcame my obsessed art making, and I put away the oils. Only three weeks to go! I really had to pack this all away! But I couldn't bear to. The sea shipment would take at least a month to get to us, and then I still would not have a studio set up. Maybe if I made a cartoon about not packing I would understand my resistance better and be able to overcome it:

 

Like Gomar, I did resolve to put away the art projects. But unpacking is an excellent way to not pack, and it seemed to me that I might not actually be allergic to black and white pastels after all - surely only to the colored ones.  And how long could it take to make a portrait of our beloved Pilates instructor, Annette, who surely deserved a nice going-away present? I unpacked the pastels and got to work:

Annette

 

Okay, that was fun, but time was moving forward. The fiasco of a move that was a vague possibility on the horizon now came into focus, looming over me. I remembered the words of my friend from almost three months ago - how she did everything for the move. A sense of terror and loneliness washed over me. Claire was focused on graduating from high school and going off on last minute trips with friends. Iris, always hopelessly absent-minded, was wrapped up in saying good-byes and navigating through 7th grade drama. Meanwhile, Adele, more capable by nature than her mother in carrying out this move, had already become tired of covering for her sisters as well as herself. Matt when not off on a business trip had been trying to sell the car; he was hardly in a position to take charge of the move. If only I could follow the advice of my friend who did it all!

 

Stay tuned for part two: How Not to Pack: The Fiasco Begins