Alva Jeppsson

The garden. A bustling in-between, a play and a stage. A concrete bodily escape from reality when the hand in the earth shapes a paradise, a prison. A bridge, a path, time passing, and a small trace left behind. In the garden, you are in-between outside and inside, between the street and the home, it stands, balancing.

We never considered the furniture at grandma’s house. We dragged in moss, carried water to pools from the kitchen into the living room. We picked rhubarb leaves to use as roofs for the huts, and the flowerpots were rearranged into a dense forest with small patches of fields in the soil. At grandma's, there were many things, many odd things that didn’t exist in other homes. This gave world-building an unpredictability we appreciated. Even the fact that we, with little to no restrictions, could bring the outdoors inside and take the indoors outside (I remember once when our aunt put a stop to a transport of soil from the garden bed to the parquet floor under the living room table, shocking) was appreciated by us world-builders.

Image: Alva Jeppsson

Image: Alva Jeppsson