Virginia Woolf spoke of the need for a room of one’s own–a place of sanctuary and a place to create without the demands of daily life and the expectations of society interrupting the progress of creation.

I appear to need go one step further. I need a studio of my own. At home, I have a room. I have space where I kept all my fabric, my books, my dreams. Unfortunately, it was also where I keep my finances, my father’s ashes, my files and everything else that screams “responsibility.” I can sit in that room for hours and hear the walls list my failings… “are the clothes washed?” “have you cleaned the house?” “Are the bills paid?” “What will we eat this evening?” “There are a dozen useful things you should be doing–what are you doing here, daydreaming?”

So, with the support of Kurt, I have stepped out of the house and am trying to create art in a studio space. The studio is as odd and contrary as I am. It’s 6-feet wide and 22-feet long. It’s already filled with fabric, and I still have more to bring in. Right now, the walls are blank, and the windows make me feel a bit like a fish in an aquarium. But when I am there, I don’t think about finances, or filthy carpet, or clothes that need to be washed. There, I listen to music, sing to myself, and sew, draw, and play with fabrics. I hope that I don’t destroy this space with all my “shoulds” and “oughts.” I want to keep the space for design and play. I want to keep it my studio.

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