It behooves me to mention that I no longer have a studio. I have a house, in which I paint.
This past summer we spent a week in San Francisco in a friend's small apartment. When I got home I was thinking about space, and how one lives in their space. My "studio" was a small extra bedroom that was darkly lit, and I was forever fiddling with the lights to get them bright enough in there. Plus, it's also the room where I do Teletherapy, meaning I don't want all my easels and paints and related painting accoutrement in the background.
So finally I decided, enough. I'm a grownup, with a house. I rarely entertain, so why am I hanging on to that living room? We don't even have a TV in there.
I have a couple of Adeptus solid-wood flat pack carts, and one has a drop-leaf end. This is my tabouret. The other card holds drawing supplies and drawing pads. They're both on wheels.
So here is the result:
and the Sandia Foothills.
Newly painted painting rest in them, and this keeps the house from smelling like a oil factory.
Yes, it's an odd fixture in my living room. But it's not like I'm having any major parties in there.
And if it's a living room, why not live in it?