For the last four days, my studio has been taken over by Katy Perry and carbamate-linked monomers. In addition to the usual array of things from my mother’s life as a glass and textile artist. By this, I mean that the exterior doors of our house are being refinished and two guys named Freddy and Sean are very politely rearranging all of my stuff and filling my workspace with polyurethane fumes mingled with their questionable taste in music. Unfortunately, I can’t just peace out because I’ve been put in charge of looking after them. When one lives at home and gets free range to occupy Mom’s art studio, one does what one can to pay dues. But still, there are seven exterior doors to the studio. I don’t want to be an ungrateful jerk because generally this means that in my great, free space, I get lots of sunlight (when it’s not nighttime, like in this picture) and an awesome view, but right now it also means…THEY MIGHT NEVER BE FINISHED. At least, it feels that way. Do I sound distressed?
The thing that really blows me away is how truly out-of-sorts this has rendered me. I feel like something has been taken from me. I feel like I’ve been besieged. My brain clatters around trying to simultaneously deal with the toxic smell, the unwanted sound, the weight of company, and the urgency of creation, but it can’t, so it explodes into a cloud of thoughts, sensations, and senseless sparks of idea until I find myself wandering from room to room trying to find a silent, clean space and not knowing what to do with myself.
I don’t want to exaggerate. I haven’t been rendered completely useless. I researched things! I sent e-mails to helpful people! I made lemon curd for my impending birthday cake, though I have not yet gathered myself enough to check in and reflect on how I feel about hitting another year mark of being in this world. BUT, I haven’t worked on any paintings. The most I managed to do was trundle back into the studio after it had been vacated to do a fairly arbitrary drawing inspired by Norse mythology and a still-life of some distressed-looking flowers I picked on an illicit walk around the block.
I’m still so discombobulated that I can’t even formulate a coherent conclusion to this narrative. Space matters! Some one please make these people leave me alone and stop making my house look nice so I can work. Have a great day. Don’t sniff paint. I speak from experience.