Artists’ Studios

Dear Reader,

I will never cease to appreciate being able to walk into my studio, where I create art. It’s an 11 by 11-foot room with a ceiling and two walls made of glass that’s attached to the back of the house. Natural light is abundant – too much so in the summer, so I insert homemade ceiling curtains to soften the light and reduce the heat. In the fall, the weather turns cold and moisture condenses on the glass; water drips on my head as I sit at my drawing table. But it is still sublime, because it is my space and looks out onto my husband’s gardens. This summer’s visitors included a kaleidoscope of butterflies, a hooded warbler, a great blue heron and a bobcat.

When I returned to painting after nearly four decades of not practicing art, my studio was the back hall because it has two skylights. I put away my materials and stood my easel in a corner if people came to visit. The decision to spend my savings to build a studio was daunting, because it signaled a turn onto a “road not taken” earlier in life.

I documented my fascination with studio spaces in “Thresholds I have Crossed,” a chapter in The little O, the earth: Travel Journals, Art & Poems. Why am I attracted to artists’ studios and writers’ desks? I wrote, “I think my quest is tied to seeing how close one visit can bring me to the act of creation.” It is a thrill that will never grow stale.

The opening quotation is from an article about Catherine Opie, whose Los Angeles studio contains a vast collection of cut-out images and a free-standing monitor that plays scans she will use in her upcoming exhibition. When asked how many hours of creative work she put into a day, she replied, “Twenty-four.” While artists and writers absorb inspiration without boundaries of space and time, the actual place where the work gets done is transformative and instructive. When asked to describe her worst studio, she said, “No studio. Not having a studio for an artist is really hard.” It made me think about the lengths to which we go to make room to work.

Sometimes artists let me see their studios. Most of the time, that is not possible, and I ask them for descriptions. Here is a sampling.

Garages with space heaters. Basements augmented with special lamps that mimic daylight. A table tucked in the corner of a living room. Spare bedrooms. Rented studios in derelict factories. The corner of a stable, complete with wood burning stove and horses. Dining room and kitchen tables galore. A closet.

Two feelings collided when I was writing the previous paragraph. I was heartbroken thinking about the barest minimum many artists are confronted with. This was balanced by admiration for their courage and persistence. I ask you to consider this when you next gaze at a piece of art.