R E F L E C T I O N 

A Room of One's Own
(and the construction hell I went 
through to get it.)

I have been sleeping on the floor of my family room for three months sandwiched between a love seat and an armoir. I have had various men showing up at my house before I've had my first sip of morning coffee — since August 15th, sometimes 6 days a week. (Here is the point where you roll your eyes and say, "Oh poor baby! Dealing with construction. First World problem.")

But for an artist who suffers from anxiety and OCD, it has been close to unbearable. It has given me a renewed compassion for people who are displaced from their homes due to war, fire, or natural disaster. This doesn't even come close to those scenarios (and I know my version of hell will someday come to an end), yet I feel so overwhelmed. I am displaced by my own choosing, they have been displaced by fate. My emotions, however, are not paying attention to logic.

This also speaks to the fact that an artist needs peace, quiet, and time to daydream before getting to work. It sounds like pampering, but it is essential. Not an easy commodity to attain in a world spinning off its axis. 

My good friend Luke, fellow artist, told me that Chuck Close said inspiration was for amateurs; professionals just get to work. I will get to work, but I need a daydream vacation, and a room of my own. The corner in the basement next to the boiler room ain't cutting it anymore.

When I can put things back in their place, and organize my art supplies once again, I will be grateful for what I have, and I will get back to work at daydreaming.