I love artists studios, and mine is my haven. Each time I open the door I am greeted by the stares of my girls, my creations. Sometimes those stares feel accusatory if I haven't been there for a while. I sit in my chair with a brew and just look at the the last lot of work before starting afresh. My studio is in an old mill, it is deadly silent which is eerie as I often think of how noisy it would have been in its heyday. I think about the women workers, half deaf, fingers shredded, working in harsh conditions, lungs shriveled from cotton dust and raise my brew to them. I am blessed.
The Haven of the Studio
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Thoughts on paint and painting.