Una cabaña propia

Virginia Woolf decía que para escribir hay que tener una habitación propia, y parece que para ser niño hay que tener una cabaña propia. Y no, no quiero decir que haya que tener una cabaña carísima en lo alto de un árbol. No. También vale con una sábana colgando de lo alto de la litera, del sobre de la mesa del comedor; o con cuatro palos apoyados en un tronco de un árbol, o con una torre de cojines, según parece aquí, con mucha razón, a mi entender.

"Little kids don’t have permanent control over their spaces,” said Ms. Foster, the associate director for urban planning and historic preservation at Columbia. “They can make a little space. It’s about having their space, taking control of it. Fundamentally, that’s what architecture is all about.

 Y creo que también vale la pena tener esto otro bien presente:

When I interviewed the architects, I heard the hints of melancholy in their voices about connecting with kids in a mutually creative process. We remember the comfort of the fort, the thrill of designing our own space, and we want to design it with our children.

But maybe the experience isn’t about togetherness. Maybe it’s about letting go. Sure, I may have a few months, maybe years, to collaborate. I’ll show them things. I’ll initiate. But then I’ll have to let them have their home inside our home, apart from us.

The pillows and blankets, the sheets and rope, the umbrellas, will belong to them. And the secrets whispered inside.

I wonder if I’ll know when I’ve built my last fort.

Para entonces, espero haber hecho muchas fotos y poder revivirlas muchas veces más.