Today I modelled for an artist and friend. The experience was more than I had thought it would be. Not sure what I expected. Me sitting mute, not twitching or blinking and long periods of silence? What transpired was a lot of honest talking, laughing, almost tears at one point at the absurdity of life. Having my portrait drawn felt more invasive than I realised. I’ve signed up for another session.
The quote at the top is the quote she’s tacked onto her studio door. As much as I would love to share the photo of the work and of her workspace, I don’t feel I should. Perhaps I’ll ask her permission at another time, but for now I’ll leave her to her peace. Entering an artist’s space feels like treading on sacred ground. They fully inhabit those walls, that window, the canvases stacked against the sides. It’s like being invited into their sacred space and it is an honour to even walk through the door.
Oddly, I don’t feel like this about my own workspace. I’m happy for anyone to see my work desk and the mess of watercolours, acrylics, brushes, papers, doodles, written ideas, mistakes, cast offs, detritus of a creative vocation. Maybe it’s the difference between working from home and having all of the rest of my life spill into my work space vs having a studio containing all that creativity, which fills the space like water.
