I never read Virginia Woolf’s A Room Of Ones Own, but I quote the title often.
When I was fixing up the Studio Barn, making it mine, I found I couldn’t stop crying. I cried when I cleaned it out, I cried when I vacuumed the ceiling, I cried when I painted the walls and floor, I cried when I washed the windows, I cried when I moved my loom and fabric in.
It wasn’t just that I had a space of my own to work in when I chose to and to do with exactly as I pleased. It was as if I was finding a part of myself that had been hidden, even from me, my whole life. It seemed I had tucked the artist I was, safely away in a deep pocket within me and now it was re-emerging. My whole life I had given pieces of myself away, and moving into the Studio Barn was my first step in becoming whole again. And Jon was the one who offered it to me, not just the space, but the gift of seeing, through someone else’s eyes, who I really was. And I took that gift and ran with it.
And now, at this point in my life, I couldn’t imagine not having a studio. Someplace outside of the house, (I’m not strong enough to resist the pull of a sink full of dishes or a dryer full of clothes.) Where at the end of the day I can leave the scraps of fabric on the floor and the half finished work on my desk, cover my machine, turn off the lights and leave in a moment’s notice. Then come back the next morning and find everything exactly as I left it.
What a gift, and I take it gratefully, every day and every night.