Thursday, August 18, 2011
The desk where I live...
The studio is a kind of chicken and egg thing-it's sometimes hard to figure out how much of the development of your work is decided by the space you make it in. I've only had small spaces to work in so far, and I have always stayed relatively small. But I've been watching ants and turning over rocks and collecting dead bees for as long as I remember. I have no idea what I would do in a giant loft with floor to ceiling windows and splattered concrete floors. Would I hunker in a corner, lurk along the walls? Would I get all expansive, consider space larger than my desk top? I can't tell you how many times I've been told to work larger. I know they're probably right, but my concession to the artistic temperament thing has always been covert - I nod politely, concede that they may be right, like a good girl, and then go back home and do what I want.
This small space, this desktop, with its avalanching yarn balls and pliers clattering to the floor and boxes of beads upended by my errant elbows, is the center of my universe. It's tight, it's the pinpoint axis on which I try to balance what I know. The raw material comes from outside its orbit, but, once inside the circle of the light cast by my broken lamp, experiences try to sort themselves out. It's where I mull and stew and obsess over things, where I mix radio stories together with conversations I've had, diagnoses and arguments and pleasures and long passed memories. It's the same for anyone who sits at a desk, making something, artist or not, that solo space picked out of a larger one, the same way little kids stake out a small section of a huge room or a wide field of grass.