Chatting with a group of fellow artists, I listened while they reflected on the past year and a half. Space was a recurring theme. Whether they had it, how they were using it or reclaiming it, what it meant. One spoke about making over her attic into a new studio for herself. Another told of how, after a month of staying away from her studio, she slowly began to go to return and work again. How for months it was just her there, no one else showing up to the building. I found myself wondering - What does it mean to make space for ourselves?
My first “studio” was a corner of the living room in our flat in San Francisco. I carved out space for myself, placing a desk, a stool, and a table lamp beside the alcove that housed our computer. I stacked old wood boxes to store my art supplies, which were considerably fewer in those days. It helped that I worked small. Occasionally one of our cats walked across my work surface, demanding attention and leaving stray hair behind. It wasn’t private, but it sufficed. I envied artists with professional industrial spaces and couldn’t imagine I’d ever get there.
When my partner and I moved to Maine in 2010, I rented a studio in a communal space that had low walls. Again, a lack of privacy, but it didn’t matter because I was mostly there on weekends as I worked full time. Only occasionally was another artist present, but she kept to herself.
Two 40” x 40” underpaintings in process.
For a time I shared a studio that was a bay in another artist’s massive barn studio. Anne Strout was one of those gifts you get, someone who shows up at the exact right time and offers you precisely what you need. I was struggling to make ends meet, having moved out of my communal studio and into a small space of my own in a building downtown. To keep it meant continuing to make a particular kind of work that sold decently, but which I was no longer interested in making. I was ready to move in a new direction and I needed time (and fewer expenses) so I could explore and make a lot of not necessarily sellable work.
I met Anne at Haystack School of Craft in a metalsmithing workshop. We were sharing a workstation and both burning the midnight oil in a fit of creative passion. We got to chatting and one thing led to another. Anne wasn’t planning on having a studio mate in her enormous brand new studio space. It was on her private property and she had a lot of interests and the equipment to support those interests. But she invited me to move in and I did. I was there for almost five years and we had some really good times together. I will never forget her kindness and generosity.
My current studio is spacious with a high ceiling and five big windows that flood the room with light. It has hardwood floors that I clean religiously and which are great for yoga and the occasional private dance party. It is a haven and I am grateful for it everyday. A little over two years in, I still can’t believe I get to go there to do what I love.
I was thinking about the evolution of my studio practice as I was setting up for a three day workshop in October at Snow Farm. Moving tables around, adjusting window fans, laying out palettes and heat guns, arranging paint and drawing materials, I noticed how in just a couple of hours I transformed a multi-purpose room into a painting studio.
In my old studio on Congress Street in downtown Portland in 2017. Photo credit: Claire Dibble.
There is a cadence to creating space, a rhythm and a ritual. Setting up to teach is about making the room welcoming and useful, ensuring there is enough light and proper airflow, that the layout is inviting and inspiring, but also purposeful. Then the students arrive and my role as teacher shifts to instruction, but also facilitator, listening to each student and forging connections between them, their materials, and the other individuals in the room.
During that class I had the opportunity to work alongside my students during open studio hours, something I typically don’t do. I noticed the quiet communal hum of activity, the sweetness of being together in space with likeminded people, each of us intent on our own creative process. At one point I said out loud - this is so lovely - this being together working. A student looked up and responded, “this is why I take classes - for this exact experience.”
When I broke down the room two days later, packing up supplies, returning tables and chairs to their original positions, and closing windows, I thought about how little it takes to create space for ourselves and for others.
I will be doing less teaching in 2022, as I am finding I need more time and space for my own studio practice. Each of the workshops I am offering was selected because I felt it provided students the opportunity to study in a beautiful and inspiring environment. I am particularly excited to be returning to Vermont to co-teach with my friend and fellow artist Lorraine Glessner. You can find all of my 2022 workshops here.