The new space is finally coming together … just a bit more wall painting to do … and then back to the business of art-wherever-it-takes-us. Love working in the attic. And love having my muse back home. All is well.
PS. A note about objects in the studio. At this point in my life, I’ve mostly stopped “dragging my traps,” Thoreau style. What’s left are the storied treasures — those objects dripping-rich with meaning. The chair is an English piece adopted from a picker in Winchester when I was in my early twenties…. that was on the same day I was completely entranced by the cathedral there … a milepost in my life, and a story for another time. The chair is close to 300 years old; it’s not the first antique I ever purchased, but probably the oldest. It fits me so perfectly, I’d swear it was made for my frame. Beside the chair is a little “telephone table”. My father made it. He also made the lamp … it is one of a pair made for my mother for their first wedding anniversary. They were both students at Auburn and, according to my mother, so poor the only way they could give each other gifts was to make them. As the story goes, Daddy had a buddy who worked for Southern Bell, and the company was getting rid of these old phones. He managed to recover two from the trash, and reinvented them as table lamps for Mother. She treasured them so …. I was surprised when she gave them to my sister and me last year.
