EST. 2009

August 12, 2012

That Foam Party

I GREW UP SLEEPING ON A PIECE OF FOAM. Both my parents hail from very humble roots, unknowing of mattresses and linens and bed making, so we all slept on foam, cut to the size of our beds, and fitted in snug sheets. Twice I went with my dad, to a foam warehouse or factory of sorts, to choose the width and firmness of the foam that was to be my bed. I always preferred firm.

I still remember vividly how a fresh one would smell dry and synthetic, with its edges raw and surface crisp underneath the sheet. It was comfortable to me then and if I had to, I wouldn't mind still sleeping on one now.

So it struck a chord with me, Etienne Gros' foam sculptures. Their raw edges and crisp surfaces given shape to by a female form. No quilting, no springs, just foam. Fantastic.

Thinking back, that would have been roughly 7 hours a day for twenty-two years. 48,180 hours of support for sleeping, sulking, saying little girl prayers and dreaming little girl dreams. It was all foam, up until the girl had grown, upgrading to big girl things like wakeful nights, petty fights and quarter life back pain. And mattresses.

Les Mousses
by Etienne Gros, Images from