I remember, when the great publishing ball got rolling, someone asked me if I had a studio. I did not. I was working at a table in my parents’ family room. I would spend a few hours in the book mines at the local bookstore, go home, set up my stuff, work a few hours then pack it up so as to not clutter the table for the next day. The notion of having a space where I could leave my stuff out, ready to work on at a moment’s notice, seemed like a pleasant dream.
For time to time, I would think about that. The dream of a studio, a place set apart from the world for the singular purpose of making artwork. On some level, that was the goal, to be successful enough to have a studio.
That hasn’t happened. And, for a variety of reason, which include things like moving to an expensive, urban environment, my work space has actually been reduced. Where I used to have the family room in the vast wasteland of suburbia, I now find myself working in about four square feet in a bedroom deep in the heart of city-filled madness.
Needless to say, I’ve modified my dream about what a studio is. What was once a spacious room filled with materials and the typical bric-a-brac of an idiosyncratic person is now a box which only contains the simplest tools necessary to produce greatness.
Which gets me to the latest incarnation of my studio. If you recall, way back in June, I was surrounded by a lot of weird people who were obsessed with WWII. More obsessed than me, because they dress up in uniforms and such and wander around talking to each other about nostalgic hooey. It’s weird and probably unhealthy. But anyway, they had a lot of a cool crap. And the thing I noticed, having never seen them before, were the desks built into the common army trunk. The flexibility of that idea is remarkable. Of course, it’s a game of limitations. Here’s a box, it’s X x Y x Z inches… what can you do in that space to make it a functional storage/workspace? I’m a sucker for that kind of thing.
Well, after seeing those WWII desks, my dad and I talked about building one. It wasn’t doable. The charm was in the vintage materials. Then my dad, while searching online, found a WWII box, sans innards. Of course I bought it and had it shipped to him. Which prompted the summer project of designing the shelves and letting my father work his magic with the power tools.
So allow me unveil the new studio.
Pretty cool. Now I have to figure out what is worthy enough to sit in those little boxes. Once that is accomplished, I’ll get to work at the tiniest of studios. Tiniest but coolest.