Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Dream studio, (literally)
I guess I had dream houses built in my head when I was a kid, but they were never as vivid to me as the fantasy studio. My father was an art director and worked with all kinds of artists, and each came with their own particular work places. The one I remember best belonged to a very well-known and wonderful illustrator. It filled the entire top floor of a Brooklyn brownstone, stacked up to the low ceiling with rolls of paper and flat files, piles of books, posters, paintings, rows of glass jars filled with gouache. It smelled like pipe smoke and mildewed paper. When we came to visit, we were entertained up there, eating and talking between the art supplies.
I don't have the kind of studio I think I want yet, but it doesn't matter right now. The work gets done, everywhere I can. But I did manage to give fantasy some kind of form, on the top floor of one my dollhouses. Even if it were real, I'd fill it up anyway, and start planning out the next one.