Paint. Years of it in dribs and drabs.
Perfect colors and imperfect ones,
Experiments and searches,
It is always the working spaces I notice.
The light and space and color.
The tools and stacked against the walls, the work.
The working spaces, often more like the person
than the carefully curated rooms where they live
and bring company. Unpretentious.
You feel at home there. In the light and color,
amidst the half-finished and barely begun,
in the mess of creation.
About this poem.
People notice things when they visit I am told. Books or furniture or art. Me? I like the working spaces where people create whatever they create. There is an energy in there that is true. And it’s wonderful.
The picture was taken in my new friend Matt Solon’s studio.
Yes. A true artist needs his own studio, his own space, inviolate.