A common cri de coeur heard from the lower upper class to the upper lower class is that Those Wealthier Than Us couldn’t possibly have any real problems. This is the over-riding American belief that money solves everything. Now, it is a fact that money does solve lots of problems. I’m sure we’re all listing those problems now: food, shelter, cel phone, personal transportation device. But there are some problems money can’t fix. Love comes to mind; disease, existential dread, wanton children, crazy relatives. The acid test for most of us reading this is: the many people lower than you on the Forbes Two Billion Richest MenPeople think you are rich and therefore have no excuse to have problems. They are as right as you. Right?
So what follows is, I know, very much a first world problem. And, really, not even a problem; just a conscious change. Okay, forget that first paragraph.
I gave up my studio in the throbbing center of little Black Mountain, North Carolina, because I was starting a long-distance research project for my next series of books. I was surprised at how sad that made me. After long decades of studio-ing out of my home, the leap to an art-room of its own was like walking through a door. Literally. And figuratively.
First, there was more room than I’d ever had, which I rapidly filled up with tables, easels, a couch, a sink, flat files, carpets, pencils, paints, and pallets. I covered the walls with art I love, mine and others. I could spread out, pile up, sort through, and re-read to my hearts content (arts content?). I could also wander around town, visit friends, have a tea or a lunch, and waste as much time as I needed, but a different kind of time-wasting than what I did at home. For example, I’d half-jokingly tell people I was avoiding work, which then made me realize that was just what I was doing. That sort of public accountability drew me back.
I met clients there and other artists. Most important, I created my two best works, “Fetch” and “Owl Girl.” Did that have anything to do with the studio? Maybe. Like Death, a studio serves to focus the mind wonderfully.
This studio experience taught me a lesson that I might have learned fifty years ago if I had been paying attention in art school; seriousness is measured in action, not intention. But I’m okay with it taking this long to learn. One thing I did learn back then was the Futility of Regret. “La la la,” sings the Bohemian grasshopper, as the minions of Aunt R R Martin warn that Winter is coming.
