Pamela kept going along, going along, then hit on something, tore or cut it out of her notebook, and put it on the wall. A few days later she came back to see if it stuck. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t, and other times it needed a word added here, a word added there, a word moved from one place to another. Sometimes this applied to phrases and sentences. Sometimes too this didn’t stick, and she found it on the floor. She left it where it where it fell, letting it lie to collect boot prints and protect the industrial loft’s floor. Over time a carpet formed, ever changing as the open window or draft from the shaft way let in the breeze to shuffle things around, boot prints and stains forming ever changing patterns. She liked it this way. She photographed it, photographed the floor, noting the time and date on the back of each Polaroid print. This she continued to do until the Polaroid Corporation stopped manufacturing film stock for her camera and her supply was exhausted and the cost of acquiring what little stock remained became prohibitive. At this point she collected the prints, arranged them chronologically, and installed them on the wall. She called the installation The Floor, sent out fliers, bought some beer, wine, and cheese, and invited people to come and see.
On the day of the opening she thought of collecting the deleterious from the floor, some of which had decayed and become soil or very much like it. She examined the floor carefully to see if anything was growing there but nothing was. So she left it as it was.
The opening was a success. Critics raved, took photographs, called her a genius, asked her all sorts of questions about its making and many lucrative commissions followed. “Come and do my house, come and do mine.” Two collectors offered to buy her apartment lock, stock, and barrel and install it, Cloisters style, in their own homes. She found this amusing, then depressing, because they did not quite get the point, had missed the point all together. They would be better off making their own. And she decided to tell them this, nicely, politely, sending them notes, each one personalized with something she remembered about them, thanking them for coming and for the praise and interest and describing in detail how they could make a piece like hers of their own.
The only problem, she said, was the camera and film. They would need to buy or manufacture their own.