MOVED HOUSE. It was quite painless in the end. I’ve always rented places with a spare room to work in (never a ‘studio’, strictly a ‘room’) only to find myself working in the kitchen, in the garden, anywhere with the right equipment or the right view. It’s happened again. The last place I want to work is the place I’m meant to be working in, though it’s a good little room, with a good little view. I read this at the kitchen table yesterday:
“The idea of working in a ‘studio’ makes me uncomfortable, always has, as has thinking of myself as an ‘artist.’ Both terms presume that my motive is ‘to make art’ … I don’t like to know where I’m going to end up before I begin. … I tried having a studio only once, in 1985, when a sculptor friend and I rented an additional apartment in the Hell’s Kitchen building where we lived. For me, the experiment lasted just two weeks. I didn’t understand maintaining a separate room to which I was to ‘go and make my art.’”
(David Robbins in The Studio Reader, University of Chicago Press 2010, p. 261)
