A friend of mine is generously allowing me to use a room in her home as my studio. When husband and I originally moved into our apartment, we both thought the living room and bedroom would be large enough for me to fit work spaces into, but the spaces always felt like they were battling for a clear purpose. While I will still have a small area at home to work in, it will be less overwhelmingly cluttered and used only for small scale projects. For a couple months now I have felt that my paintings and drawings needed to be larger, so actually having a space to find out what exactly that entails is really exciting.
The room was a boy’s room. The walls were bright blue, the way you imagine the sky is blue as a kid, and then later realize it isn’t that kind of blue at all. I inherited a small wooden desk with missing drawer handles and a pale blue-green dresser with paint charmingly chipped off and worn down. There are also scattered pins, pennies, pencils, and paint brushes. Oh, and two mirrors placed in such a way that I can see myself before I open the closet door, then immediately afterward as I step into the closet.
I like the history of spaces, real and imagined. Once, ballroom turned hospital turned theatre turned yoga studio. Then home turned hospital turned home turned dining room. I don’t know the history of Mira’s house, but I do know a boy used to have this room. I changed the blue walls to white and dark red. The ceiling still glows with stars and moons when I turn the lights off, and I enjoy that about it. It reminds me that I am just borrowing this space.