This is my studio. At least, that's what I like to call it. It's two inches longer than I am tall, and four feet wide. Christian built it in the corner of our garage, raised, so I can look out of the window when I'm sitting down. The window in the summer often has flies. I'm learning to make friends with them or get good at flyswatter aim. The latter is not too hard.
The garage is separate from the house, and therefore a space where there is the kind of quiet I love and missed so much while the schools and libraries are/were closed.
The studio has a rug, a storage container to protect paper and books from dust, and space for a comfy chair and a folding chair. I use one chair for reading and the other for writing, but not always.
The studio is new, but in the winter, with a moving blanket for a curtain, I think I'll be able to keep the corner warm with the orange heater hanging from the ceiling. We'll see.
I used to imagine that things you made had to be perfect to be enjoyable. I imagined that people whose homes were featured in design magazines had a level of contentment that matched the beauty of their kitchen cabinetry. Growing older has become a process of learning that delight is to be had in the imperfect; customized spaces, handmade quality, artistic patina. This BBC series on YouTube titled “How Buildings Learn” is related to this subject. I learned a lot watching it.