Mike Sakasegawa: Sheets: A Love Letter
Before I lived with you, I never made the bed.
I fully admit that I’m a romantic, and when my friend Mike Sakasegawa sat across from me at a reviewing table at the Medium Festival of Photography and showed me his beautiful artist’s book, Sheets: A Love Letter, I knew he was too. In honor of tomorrow and Valentine’s Day when, in an ideal world all roads lead to the bedroom, I am sharing this lovely project that reveals the insights of a man who is a husband, father, provider, fine art photographer, writer, book maker, and someone you want to call a friend.
The first book was a handmade artist’s book created as a gift for his wife….
But now Mike has created a version that can be purchased here.
Michael Sakasegawa is a self-taught photographer and writer, occasional book artist, and full-time electrical engineer. Born in John Steinbeck’s hometown of Salinas, California, and growing up in the nearby towns of Carmel Valley and Big Sur, he now lives in San Diego with his wife and three children. His photographs have been included in group exhibitions at the Detroit Center for Contemporary Photography; the PhotoPlace Gallery in Middlebury, VT; and the Low Gallery in San Diego.
I never really cared how the bed looked, whether I was in it or not, and in any case I didn’t see the point in spending the time straightening up a bed I was just going to mess up again half a day hence, and which no one who didn’t live with me would be seeing.
Honestly, I still don’t really see the point.
But you like the bed to be made, and so I do. Every day.
It’s not my favorite part of my day, and it’s not the worst. I don’t take any joy or pride in the work or the result. It still doesn’t matter to me. But it’s because it doesn’t matter to me that I do it, because it’s something I do only for you, only because you like it. It’s something I can do, a small thing, to make you happy and let you know that you are loved.
If there’s one thing I do like about making the bed, it’s getting to see the evidence that you were beside me in the night. When you’re not here, I wake up in the morning to find your side unmussed, unrumpled, un-slept in—of course. It makes the job easier, but it makes me sad.
Tomorrow when I get up, you’ll most likely be gone already, taking our son to school or running an errand. When I strip the comforter, I’ll look and see the morning light caressing the wrinkled topsheet, and I’ll think of us together. And then I’ll run my hands across the fabric, smoothing it out, fluffing and stacking the pillows, pulling the blanket straight. Because that’s the way you like it, and because I love you.
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