my studio

Before I share my studio with you, I think it is necessary to mention that it was a long and personal journey to commit to having a creative space.

But here I am, writing to you from a beautiful little studio.

It is one of three bedrooms in my “new,” 100-year-old, little, suburban Boston home. It is a few blocks from the commuter rail and just 20 minutes from the heart of the city when there is no traffic (ha). The room has three big windows and a cozy little nook where I’ve tucked in an old, wooden desk. I kept the purple tasseled curtains from the 5-year-old girl who slept here before we bought the house. They seem to hold some sort of magic.

I love this desk. Files on it range from tax and business plan documents to organized folders of found shopping lists and torn magazine images separated by content and color with titles like “garden,” “neutrals,” and “to draw.” My hard drive and electric pencil sharpener are accessible but hidden behind watercolor brushes and found feathers. This old desk has big, big drawers. One is full of supplies ranging from razor blades to glitter and sewing needles. The other has calendars, stickers, current sketchbooks, and the things I use to label products and send out little notes. A shelf to the right has many more things for making. It is stacked with my scanner, boxes of mats and bags and backing board to transform little drawings into more formal pieces.

And there are the usual suspects: a Tupperware bin of cords and chargers and do-dads for my camera and computer and printer and scanner accessories, a cigar box of branded stickers and business cards, a box of shipping supplies, a curated pile of sketchbooks and magazines for collage. Paper and a fine-art printer for making my prints sit in the corner. I have one shelf dedicated to supplies: pencils, watercolors, an illustration tackle box, and inks. Above that sits a mini-library. These books are full of delights and prompts and encouragements for making. I probably haven’t read a single one from cover to cover, but I open them and touch them often.

My painting uniform is tucked in the closet with all kinds of out-of-sight supplies (ink toner, newspaper, big rolls of paper, etc). It consists of three, worn flannels for cold weather, and a breezy (and likely handmade) plaid jumper from the St. Teresa’s thrift shop, purchased for 50 cents a decade ago, for hot days. I have a heavy denim apron that I bought in the art department in college 15 years ago. It has seen me make everything.

The back half of the room is reserved for painting. Big sheets of cardboard-like paper cover the floor to protect it from any major accidents. And the walls are already speckled with marks from projects. I tape oil painting paper right up on the wall to work on and use two easels for big canvases. All my oil painting supplies fit into a roll-y cart and unfurl on my desk when I paint in the mornings.

I keep a mini warehouse of sorts in a storage room in the basement. It houses boxes and boxes of shipping supplies, frames, card and print inventory, and a growing stack of large, finished paintings on canvas. That storage space allows me mental space to make art. Without it, the studio clutters up like a little, retail factory: a recipe for getting weary and resentful of the work I love the most.

My goals, my accomplishments, my projects, and copious motivational statements are sticky-noted to the wall along with a huge, annual, wall calendar. I have my crucifix, my holy cards, and a poster of 14-year-old St. Thérèse of Lisieux keeping me company. A picture of Whitney, my partner, making music in the Lincoln Nebraska rail yard, when it was a construction site, hangs above my desk.

Even if I don’t turn on music, putting on my headphones and my little uniform gets my head in the right place. It still takes time to get to work, but, like getting my cup of coffee ready, I get a wash of intention and focus through the small rituals I am building for myself here. Sometimes, I drop in before I brush my teeth at night to peer at a work in progress or just to soak in the vibe before going to bed.

I have some bigger dreams of working outside the house. First, just in a rented studio space, but later I'd like a tiny storefront for hosting openings and mini-gallery and classes with a studio in the back. But that dream is not at all urgent. I know that for right now, having room to create alongside the bathroom, just down the hall from where I nurse a baby, and upstairs from the kitchen, is exactly what I need. I am grateful every single day for this space that brings me opportunities for creativity.

It is such a pleasure to have you drop in.