Today, for the first time in more than a year, I finished a painting. In the last two weeks I’ve been defining my routine in the new studio, and it’s very satisfying to see positive results. I’ve been able to slip in and out for as little as ten minutes at a time, or as much as five hours. But every day, I’m able to spend time. Devoting a room of one’s own to nothing but his daily reveries is one of the most intriguing things a human can do in 2009. Having been without that pleasure for a while, I’m relishing the simplest aspects of it. I actually enjoy the ten-step walk in the yard from the house, and the piqued interest of my wife, as she peeks in. One day, I may wish for something more apart or private or spacious, but right now the mere ability to work every day is enthralling. It’s already certain, my seventh studio is the best one yet.
After all, what goes on in such a place, or what should, does not require that the place be miles from civilization, or sweeping in scale. No, I would posit that it needs only be perfect in the eyes of its maker. A place where things can happen, a box to hide and see from.