My studio, where all my wildest dreams come true

All studios are a compromise. Actually, it’s not the studio that’s a compromise it’s when desire meets affordability that’s the compromise. It turns out I have mixed emotions about my studio. It has most everything I need. With any space there are pro’s and con’s. The location is great; however, higher ceilings would be nice and northern light would be amazing! It’s clean and mostly quiet. In my studio, I lose track of time. When I lock up, I’m often surprised that the sun has set. My studio is where I go to fight the voice in my head that wakes me at 4am. When the creative side of my mind sleeps, the cynical side is awake calculating the cost, pulling me toward reality, asking if I’m willing to pay the price to dream.


In the hallowed walls of my merciful studio, I come to work, to process my thoughts, to create. My studio is where I come to confess with an equal dose of hope and prayer. I practice my craft and test my own sensibilities to disperse the artist curse. I’m afflicted as much as the next. I no longer see my work with virginal eyes. I see the paint and I look for what’s missing. The curse can cripple an artist. At its worst I feel like the painting I’m working on is a fake, a fraud, a forgery. My model stand is empty, with no one to observe. My reference is digital, I photoshopped it into existence. I know my secret is safe with you dear reader…




My job demands skill and concentration. Performed well, the digital footprints of my transgressions will go unnoticed. Otherwise it’s similar to macaroni glued to cardboard. My hope is that my brush’s story is richly stitched together with enough courage to suggest that a person sat on my model stand, holding a beautiful pose for hours, bathed in elegant light. If not, it’s destined for the dumpster.




I love my studio, even though it has no windows. My plant is on life support, I hear the hum of its light screaming at it to grow, forcing it to bloom hiding yet another crime. Plants deserve to feel the sun too.




I’m lucky that I have a forgiving place where I can create. Look at these donuts!They held their pose dutifully, effortlessly in fact. It’s an honest painting. There is no guilt woven into the paint. Each dab of color is a labor of love. The only suffering is the guilt in eating the evidence of the still life.