I drove my parents crazy by the time I was nine. Every couple of weeks I’d want to rearrange my bedroom furniture. At first they thought it was cute and they helped me. After a few rearrangements, the help stopped and they tried to persuade me that there really was only one wall the bed could fit on and anyway I was going to ruin the wood floors. I saw an unlimited combination of ways the room could be arranged. One of my favorites had my desk jutting out in front of the door like an office receptionist, requiring them to sign in before entering.

 

So what started as help ended with me being forbidden to move my furniture ever again. “Pick a version and that’s it!” my father yelled. I did and they helped me “for the last time.” But by the next weekend, the urge for change was strong. I was stymied as to how I could execute this on my own, on creaky floors, as they sat having coffee in the kitchen directly below my bedroom. Furniture glides had not yet been invented.

 

Using a crow bar from the garage and wads of batting I found in my mother’s sewing stuff, I placed the white fluff under each leg of each item, and inch by inch by inch, rearranged the room with nary a creak being made.

 

When my father passed my bedroom, as I sat behind the newly positioned desk, he looked in and held my gaze for a few seconds. Then he just sighed and shook his head and kept on walking.

 

inFormed Space is born out of that, my earliest inclination—which each of us has about something—that time of uncensored expression.