Some artists refer to their studios as wombs or sanctuaries, and their practice as sacred and ecclesiastical. I do not. My studio is far from heavenly, and my practice nowhere near as ministerial, but I still see it as equally divine.
For me, it is the only place I’m comfortable being embarrassed; a place to cultivate ridiculous ideas, Google the hand habits of aardvarks (I now know they don’t have hands), FaceTime with Lismore, staplegun new-found fabric to the studio floor, and most importantly, paint.
My studio floor is perpetually covered in fabric: used painters’ drop sheets, garish polyesters, old clothes (not always mine), inherited tarpaulins, found yacht sails, plastic bags and so on. My studio floor functions as the starting point for all of my paintings; everywhere underfoot there…
