I have this room in my house. It had a desk, a bookshelf and a closet. When I moved into my new house, I called it my office. The truth is it wasn’t an office. It was a place I stored my desk, my bookshelf and stacks of paper I no longer cared about. It was a lonely and, dispite the white walls and windows, it was dark.
But, then something magical happened. This summer I was inspired by the work I had done in my backyard. After 15 years, I started to paint. I don’t remember why I stopped painting. It might have something to do with my eyes being glued to computer screens. What I do remember about painting 15 years ago is not what I experience now with a brush in my hand. Perfection was my goal then. If it didn’t look like the thing in front of me, it wasn’t worth the time. Now, it didn’t matter. Some where between 25 and 41, the question stopped being “does it look correct?” and became “does it look cool?”
And something else happened, I wanted to paint and I needed a place to do it. That’s when the office became The Studio. Can a room be lonely or sad? Because when moved in my paints and an easel, the unfullfilled room became bright and beautiful. The desk is still there and so are the bookselves. But now, it is the brightest, happiest, room in my house and I have yellow bathroom walls that are brighter than Seasame Street’s Big Bird.
The Eye was the first painting I did in my studio.