DIY? How Hard Can it Be?
Notes from the Wrong End of Life
Sorry, I’m a bit late with my latest and wonderfully ignored; Notes from the Wrong End of Life. I’ve been moving my art studio from the front room of my house to a new location in the back of an old stable. This took considerably longer and was far more effort than I’d anticipated. I reckon we have some kind of amnesia when it comes to the stress incurred by moving.
Also, I’ve no actual idea how I managed to get so much stuff into a small room. I have been using my living room as a studio for 5 years and in that time I appear to have mastered the magic arts—at least the art of making things fit into a space too small for them. I mean I only make still lives so how come I need 15 meters of patterned floor vinyl?
And what about the 30-meter roll of white paper, I haven’t drawn anything for years so what’s that for? There are old bits of boat and flotsam and jetsam gathered in the vague hope I may someday use them and, no, it can’t be thrown away.
Then there’s the huge knot of cables. All the generations of USB and even some firewire cables all tangled into an incomprehensible knot and ooh, look a box of power supplies from three house moves ago — what are they for? I have no idea. Hello, what’s this? A projector I didn’t know I owned and this large sack of dried poppy seed pods…and so on, and on.
The other side of this saga is the bare room which comprises my new studio needs shelves and a work bench and I’m going to have to build them. For those of you who don’t know, which is probably all of you — as part of my technicolour rainbow of disabilities I only have the use of one working arm.
This makes putting up shelves both a challenge and a comedy. One I strive to avoid but at this moment I have no option other than to buy the shelf stuff and a power drill and set to it. I cannot afford a carpenter to make them for me and anyway, how hard can it be?
These thoughts were born of optimism and pain meds — this idea I could transform my art studio walls into a modular shelving heaven using slotted metal strips and brackets. “It’ll be so easy!”
Famous last words. Drilling holes into bricks was my first appointment with the reality of DIY. It’s hard and no matter what I did no holes appeared. Clouds of brick dust enveloped me but yet nothing. What do you mean there’s a hammer setting on the drill I’m meant to use to drill into masonry? Oh, and a particular drill bit? They are not all the same? That was a revelation.
With the holes finally drilled, plus a few extra as I was so elated by being able to do it in the first place I awkwardly hefted the shelves one-handed and after screwing the strips to the wall, assembled the first gleaming brackets. They felt satisfyingly sturdy at first. But the shelves slowly developed a mocking tilt. Straight out of Pisa, no matter how I tightened the brackets.
Like any sane one-armed person, I ripped it all down to start over. I shook my fist at the shelves defiantly, “I will defeat you!” This time I laser-levelled, measured twice and ratcheted those brackets with all my might. Perfect…for about one hour. Until subtle twists crept back in. This dance continued for days. Install shelves, shelves go crooked, angry outburst, redo brackets. My left arm flailed around uselessly like a fleshy flipper. But I was determined to whip these shelves into submission through pure force of will.
At my lowest point, I found myself perched precariously atop a ladder, my left arm duct-taped to a level as a makeshift brace. Both of us swaying like a sad pendulum towards imminent destruction. And yet — I prevailed! Until I over-torqued a strip that then ripped from the wall in a shower of dust and despair.
Defeated, I noticed my studio now resembled an M.C. Escher drawing, with shelves jutting out at wild angles and then doubling back again. It was time to face facts — I was no match for these sly shelves and their slanty tricks.
With my ego crumbling I slumped amidst the rubble of my efforts. Then the epiphany struck! Did these tortured shelves still technically hold all my art supplies properly? Yes! Was I the only one who noticed their slight tilts? Also, yes. To the untrained eye, they appeared perfectly functional. Which, in fact, they were.
Sure, I was not about to win any shelf-making prizes (if there is such a thing) but I realized no one else would ever scrutinise them like me nor would they be a party to the herculean effort that went into their making. My expectations of precision were outrageously unrealistic, especially one-armed. In that moment, I found acceptance.
So, while my shelves may never be ruler-straight, laser-perfect, or worthy of shelfie fame, they humble me with their imperfection. They hold my art materials well enough and represent the beauty of practicality over perfection. I will forever embrace their gentle sway as a reminder that in crooked shelves, a life, “good enough” prevails.
Moving an art studio is like playing a cosmic game of hide-and-seek with your own supplies. You step into the studio thinking, “I’ve got this but the challenge is navigating a labyrinth of lenses, tripods, and cables that seem to have allied against a smooth relocation.
As an artist and professional hoarder of random objects I think might look nice in a still life someday, I have become quite adept at utilizing every last inch of space in my home studio. After five years of cramming my living room with towering stacks of vintage books, prop baskets spilling over with glassware and crumpled fabrics, and squeezing a French easel, taboret, and a faux taxidermy flamingo, you could say I had reached a certain level of Tetris-like efficiency when it came to organizing. That is until it came time to move.
In a fit of inspiration, likely induced by the dozen empty coffee cups precariously stacked on every surface, I decided the offer of a cheap disused but reconditioned stable was just what I needed to be even more productive. Fast forward several weeks of shuffling around photo stands, props, lights, paints, pencils, broken dolls and clocks, and other assorted ephemera and it becomes clear that either I’ve managed to breed a thriving colony of art supplies in my studio, or my spatial perception is severely lacking.
As I crammed item after item into well-worn moving boxes, I couldn’t help but pause and ponder, “Did I really need 14 full extension cords? How many ceramic dwarf figurines does one still-life photographer require?” The answer is always n+1, of course. Regardless of medium or genre, I believe artists universally adhere to a minimalist aesthetic of “just one more” until nothing else can physically fit and then — just one thing more.
The real moment of truth came when I tried to maneuver the towering stack of French patterned floor vinyl rolls, accumulated from past backdrops for many an unshot picnic scene, out my studio door. No amount of determined shoving or sucking in my gut could make that plastic fit through the frame. Success finally came hours later after liberating the vinyl hostages two rolls at a time through the window.
Then the tripods, those stalwart companions who have stood tall through countless photoshoots, refuse to fold into submission. They extend their spindly legs like stubborn toddlers refusing to take a nap, making you question if you accidentally adopted a herd of sentient metallic creatures.
Lights and modifiers stand like sentinels guarding the secrets of perfect lighting. Softboxes, umbrellas, and reflectors — each with a distinct personality and a propensity for entangling themselves into an intricate web of stands, fabric, and cords.
The computer, the oh-so-modern equivalent of the darkroom of old and the centre of one’s visual universe stand like a monolith of technological prowess. I wrap it in bubble wrap, hoping it doesn’t harbour secret aspirations of becoming an avant-garde sculpture during transit.
And amidst the chaos, there’s a strange beauty. Each piece of equipment, each cable, and each lens carries the imprint of countless moments frozen in time. It’s not just gear; it’s a visual diary of my creative journey. And as I close the door I realise I’m not just moving equipment; but transporting a symphony of images, ready to compose a new visual opus in a different space. Here’s to the pixels and lenses, the cables and tripods — may their journey to the new studio be as adventurous as the stories they’ve helped tell.
And so, after what seemed an endless parade of boxed books and bubble-wrapped bottles, I arrived at the new studio space. Time to unpack! What followed was a whirlwind of activity, frantically finding homes for the copious supplies I had somehow acquired over the years.
The scavenged objects filled the space in a pleasing, curated clutter adorning my newly constructed shelves. Finally, the cherry on top — unfurling those gorgeous rolls of backdrop vinyl that caused so much woe during the move. With gleeful care I lined the walls and floors with the patterns, imaging the splendid scenes I would soon compose.
Stepping back to admire my new creative haven, a thought hit me. I exclusively photograph smallish still lives on a digital camera. I have never once used these massively long background vinyls. Nor do I realistically see that changing any time soon.
But you never know when 15 meters of vintage floral might just inspire a magnum opus! For now, I’ll just be content finally having a space large enough to let my creative chaos spread its wings. Who knows what spectacular new clutter tomorrow will bring?
Now please excuse me while I go and smash the rest of these shelf brackets.
If you so desire you can see some of my artwork here: https://www.richardbutchins.art/
or on Instagram https://www.instagram.com/thewitheredhand/
