Somedays I imagine my Hotel’s interior like the belly of whale. Pink? No, more like the inky blue of a midnight sky lit by a super moon chandelier. How do you imagine the interior of an imaginary hotel? Someone shared with me recently that to them hotels are transient, impersonal places, not necessary conducive to permanence or deep rooted connectivity or imaginary delight. Totally paraphrasing my friend’s remarks; she may have just said that she prefers to stay at B and B’s. But she made me think. Why do I like to imagine hotels as such dreamy, blank slates, waiting to receive whatever memories and hopes, fears and residuals that accompany me on any given journey? For me such a place offers an escape from the habitual concerns of domestic life. No clutter. No demands of individuality or worse: good taste. To stay in such a place can be positively, or darkly, inspiring. And curiously, this leads me back to thoughts of home. See more of what I’m working on here.