Here’s a collection of snapshots looking back at where the magic happens.
After setting up several studios over the past few years, I’ve realized that a good creative space becomes its own work of art.
There’s a universal law dictating that a studio gives in return precisely as much creativity as the artist brings in over time. The walls echo back the day’s productivity or procrastination, triumph or self-sabotage.
Ideally it’s got a view onto trees that catch the wind and bustle with birds & squirrels. At night it’s the most solitary place in the world, like a hermetic cell buried under lost dunes of the Sahara.
Over time the studio becomes a little museum of sorts. Everything on view – the books, postcards & tear outs, oddball quotes tacked up, works in progress strewn about, skulls & feathers on the mantle, a growing collection of weird foundlings from nearby beaches & forests – all this stuff contributes to a mishmash biography of the artist. Where would he be without these myriad sources of wonder & inspiration?