It is said that the sense of smell is most closely tied to memory and for me this is most certainly the case. A whiff of cheap, but respectable, department store perfume can transport me back thirty years to the comfort of my grandmother’s parlor, while the more bohemian notes of patchouli and sandalwood will instantly bring to mind the summer I first fell in love and the small, moonlit breasts of my lover as she snored softly beside me. I truly believe that smells can transport us, not just in memory, but to places that are uniquely divine.

My studio is a sacred place and I fill the air with sacramental smoke while I work. In the corner of the room, beneath my collection of odds and ends from my travels, a censer oozes heavy tendrils of Frankincense and Oud smoke, some of which reach slowly heavenward, some of which puddle lazily on the tabletop and mix seductively with the notes of tobacco and hashish coating my fingertips. As the air in my studio becomes a perfectly soft homogenous haze of incense, I can transport my mind more easily into my work and imagine a new reality. My religion is in this place, without physical dimension, but tied inexorably to the tears of boswellia and the divine infection of agarwood. If a person were of a mind to occupy themselves with my work more perfectly, I would have them inhale these same earthly smells while they considered my creations.

In the Morning, Trotsky smells to me of warm buttermilk, lavender soap, and well trodden, well-aged cedar floor boards.

JAMIE BALDRIDGE