After speaking to a few fellow artists I have begun to get the feeling that we all seem to share a similar relationship with our studio. It’s almost like a torrid love affair; passionate, intense, where sometimes I feel I cannot get enough, and I long to be there all the time, a place where we bruise and break and then punish ourselves with prolonged periods of absence, a need to separate and displace, but then we always come crawling back for more, pining for her comforting embrace.
I have been a bad lover, I haven’t visited my studio for more than three weeks now, sickness, travel, holidays, meetings, friendships etc have all stolen me away. I feel guilty as I enter her glass fronted door, that familiar scent reaches me and pulls at my heart strings. Tentatively I walk inside, not daring to look her in the eye. I smooth my hand over her walls as I pass, cold to the touch. The floor is strewn with my fleeting visits; suitcases, and sequins litter her world. “I’m sorry” I whisper. “I have not forgotten you.” As the overhead light flickers on, and the radiator warms under my touch, I begin to feel her stir, to respond to my sorrow. With a heavy heart she allows me to tenderly caress her, to wipe the dust from her brow, we make up slowly. My eyes become accustomed once again to her beauty, and I feel at home again. She is mine.
