Alien

Hazel’s room is a circular collection of glass and porcelain curiosities. Her bed and additive furniture is made of the same rich dark wood that fills the rest of the house, though it is ornamented with tiles painted with flowers and shrubbery. There are blossomless plants on the windowsill, and vases of cut flowers on the nightstand next to a plain frosted glass oil lamp. There are discarded dolls from Hazel’s childhood, toys she has not touched in years, strewn across a section of the floor near an almost empty costume trunk, dilapidated with age. The bookcase holds a section of coveted and educational tomes that Hazel has never touched, they are only protected from the dust and drafts of the house by the maids who occasionally wipe them down or drape them with blankets. Hazel reads only books from her father’s library, fairy stories she finds more fascinating than a glimpse at history and accounting. What amuses her about her room, how Hazel often entertains herself when she is sent to her room or cannot sleep, is the ledge that runs around the periphery of the room. It is big enough to put her feet right on, right next to each other. She balances and holds the wall as she makes rounds of the room, stepping on the headboard of her bed or the shelves of her bookcase to avoid stepping on the floor.

The room is unfamiliar to her, and no amount of time spent in it makes the chamber more cozy. The only thing that correlates the room to Hazel is turquoise. The frames and panels of the room are decorated with inlaid slats of pure turquoise. A mobile of carved turquoise turtles is suspended over the bed, blue and green animal kingdom. Pieces of rough uncut turquoise are strung on thread running across the ceiling in overlapping lines like a spider web.

Text by Lucie MacAulay