I'm always fascinated by the workspaces of creative types. The factories of the culture industry, the monastic hives of the culturally isolated, closets and couches as well as studios or arts centers.
Here's mine. I actually helped build the place, believe it or not. My only real construction experience but I had a good time with it.
Just give the bell a ring and I'll come down and open the gate for you.
Yeah, the garden is something, isn't it? Remind me to show you the back.
The missus was a sculptor when we met; eventually, hand and shoulder strain ended her lovely love affair with ceramics. Over the last few years she's found herself obsessed with the cultivation of succulents and the creation of these miniature landscapes.
She complains that she's not an artist anymore.
I beg to differ.
So here's Karen's studio. This is where she does her thing, which is teach therapeutic exercise classes and perform bodywork.
Pink, isn't it? Karen specializes in pregnant women and new mothers, and I think that particular development must be blamed on the essentially uterine nature of her workspace. I mean, being in this room is like being back in the womb but not in a good way.
(That is the oafish reactionary perspective; the intended audience seems quite pleased with the ambience.)
Stay on the rugs or she'll shit kittens.
And the pink is bad enough but check this out. To get into my studio you got to ascend the lavender staircase! That ain't right.
Of course, this is no ordinary staircase. I've had it tuned to play Pop Goes The Weasel when drunks tumble down.
Here's the spot where the atmosphere changes. The air is warmer, moister. And is that a hint of stale beer you smell? Perhaps just a whiff of dirty ashtray?
What's that at the top of the stairs?
I don't think we're in the uterus anymore.