My studio is hideous. And I love it.
I've just moved into my very first studio--a space I am fortunate enough to share with fellow artist friends and band mates. Its a drywall cave housed in an dank old tannery. It's caked with brownish dust, fluorescent lights sputter the way they do in a truck-stop bathroom, it's never more than 40 degrees and the paint is just barely clinging to life.
Oh, and it leaks.
...and it's perfect.
Our very own Doom Factory! Our private mansion for mayhem! We Play as loud as we want. Paint as late as we want. Drink scuzzy beers out of the tiny fridge box till we're fuzzy and most importantly:
Show our work to the public.
As soon as the white envelope that held the shining keys was slid under the flimsy door I heard a fluttering sound--
the sound of a need for snide gallery owners and bar promoters flying away.
No more waiting for weeks to receive a phone call from an apathetic bartender that mispronounces your name. No more crossing our fingers until they're bruised, hoping our work will be accepted by the clique.
We're gearing up for our very first exhibition in our new Headquarters January 20th. The evenings festivities include painters, photographers, ugly cupcakes and a poetry slam.
We have a creative castle! And I don't care what anyone says--mildew or not--I've got the over-the-rainbow-flaming-unicorn-hots for her.
She is beautiful. :)