The Art Studio
I bought my first home, a cozy three-story pink brick townhouse in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. in May 2012. Over time, I’ve filled my house with a lot of furniture and happily decorated it with the things that my mom and my friends gifted me. I trawled through IKEA, Goodwill, Target, and Home Goods to look for interesting things to fill my cabinets and shelves. It took about a year for my townhouse to feel like a home, cluttered and full of reminders of family, friends, and my best boy, Lex, my 17-year old Pug-a-Poo four-legged companion. I’ve really enjoyed having my own place and being a total homebody.
Growing up as an only child, my parents valued their home and privacy, and only opened their home for special occasions. I remember that they used to host regular dinner parties for their friends. I remember my mom bringing out her best set of china, glassware, and silverware. I was often banished upstairs with plenty of food and drinks, the TV moved into my bedroom so I would be quiet and entertained. I remember going to slumber parties and sleepovers at my friends’ homes, and seeing how differently their parents (and their siblings) valued their living spaces. But I never felt comfortable hosting friends at my parent’s home; I think I only had one sleepover party. For all of my childhood and teenage years, I always felt protective of my parents’ privacy. I always felt that it was their home and they liked keeping their house to a certain standard. I had my bedroom and bathroom, and I also had a “playroom” where I could keep all my toys and books. I wanted for nothing and my parents were generous, but we lived within clearly defined boundaries of our spaces.
Over the years, I’ve lived in different types of spaces — tiny studios, dormitories, a one-bedroom apartment, and now my townhouse. It seems weird that I have so many rooms now — my bedroom, a guest room, a junk room, an entire basement lined with bookshelves and books, four bathrooms, a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, and even a large attic. All these rooms — all this space — all mine.
Starting in March 2020, when we were just going into quarantine and lockdown, I spent a great deal of time alone in my home, and I pretty much just used the living room, kitchen, and bathroom — my residential trinity. My desk in my living room became my place to work, my place to eat, and my place to create. I didn’t really spend a lot of time upstairs or in the basement, my daily life revolving around my living room. Most nights, I just slept on my couch (and I’m thankful now that I invested a little money in buying a firm and sturdy sectional set) with Lex curled on the other end, drooling on my feet.
Like many people during the lockdown, I spent a lot of time watching YouTube content and streaming movies and TV shows on various platforms. I remember watching a YouTube video on art room tours or home studio tours, and daydreaming about a dedicated room for my growing art hobby.
Wouldn’t it be nice, I thought, to have a home art studio? I could keep all of my art supplies in the room, set up a large easel, and do all of my watercoloring and painting projects in my own art studio like a real artist. Wouldn’t it be nice?
The daydream stayed with me for a few days before I realized that I could have my own art studio.
I had a junk room where I had hoarded and boxed up a lot of stuff over the years. The room was filled with the detritus of long-time homeownership, a collection of things that was junk to treasure to junk again. It was my holding room for failed hobbies, bad purchases, unreturnable gifts, outdated tech, old clothes — out of sight, out of mind behind the door.
It was possible to have my own art studio, but that would mean that I needed to go through every box and look at every item to determine if I should keep it or get rid of it (finally). It was going to take a lot of work to clear out the junk room before my daydream of having my own art studio could be a reality. That would mean that I would need to dedicate time to declutter 8 years worth of collected stuff.
I could write about being in a position of financial privilege to own a home, let alone all the money I spent on buying every single thing that was relegated to the junk room. But shame and guilt have no place in serious decluttering. The KonMari Method helped me organize my closet and my dresser drawers, but I would need hardcore decision-making and cognitive discipline to get through the junk room. Therefore, I allowed only 3 distinct piles — donate, keep & use, or trash.
It took me 3 months of daily decluttering to clean out my junk room. It took 4 donation pick-ups by the Salvation Army, when they were finally available to resume their pick up schedule, to come to my house to take away dozens of boxes and bags of reusable goods that I had carefully sorted and cleaned. Trash and recycle pick-up days were my favorite days because that meant I was free of the stuff taking up space.
Once the room was empty, I spent time cleaning it; admittedly, the first time in years. I shampooed the carpet, scrubbed the grime off the window sills, wiped down the walls and corners, reorganized the closet, and enjoyed having a junk-free room.
The daydream stalled for a couple more months. As the lockdown started to open up in late 2020, I was distracted by being able to go outside again. I had gotten used to living on the first floor of my townhouse — there is a certain convenience in having everything in one room! Since no one was actually coming into my house, what did I care about the state of my living room?
But after the new year, I started thinking about the empty room in my house. I liked seeing the room in such pristine condition. Sometimes, Lex and I would bring up the couch cushions and just hang out in the middle of the room. I’d read books and he’d nap. I loved the solitude and peace of a clean, uncluttered, empty space. For a couple of months, it was my new escape from the rest of the stuff in my house.
Then I started to notice that I had moved some of my art supplies into the room. The bareness of the room was an extension of a blank canvas, allowing me to focus on my art without visual distractions. Then I got tired of sitting on the floor and being bent over the canvas. I bought a sturdy desk and chair. Then I moved the rest of my art supplies to the room, making a neat pile against the wall by my desk. As I started to work on my art in the room, I wanted to have everything within reach. Then I couldn’t stand seeing everything scattered on the floor so I bought a large shelving unit and organized my supplies.
By April of 2021, I had a functioning art studio — my daydream made reality; the empty space now filled with all of my art supplies. One of the best things about having a dedicated space was that after I logged off from work, I could go up to my art studio (and calling it an “art studio” just made me so happy) and spend an hour or two unwinding from working remotely and being “on” during the Zoom and Teams meetings. I could play with my art supplies, I could work on a painting, I could explore techniques — I could do it without the distractions that waited for me beyond this room.
About a month after I had set up my home art studio, I invited my parents to come over for a BBQ lunch and to tour the new room. I was nervous to show them what I had done with the space. My dad, ever the pragmatist, just nodded his disinterested approval and went back downstairs to check the grill. But my mom stayed in the room, sitting on the chair and looking at all of my various art projects-in-progress, and she looked a little sad.
She said that she liked the room a lot; that I’d done a good job using the space to hold all of my favorite things. I had painted one wall a cheerful and bright turquoise color; I had framed a number of my paintings and displayed them on the walls around the room. Being a true nerd, I had a few of my Funko Pop characters on display; as well as several Lego builds. It truly was a room full of my favorite things.
I asked her why she looked a little sad, and she said that she always loved art but never had any time or space to do it at home. I’ve often wondered about how she felt living within her own boundaries as a mom and wife. I invited her to visit whenever she wanted to do some art projects, so we could use the studio together. I honestly didn’t think she would take me up on the offer, until one day, she texted me out of the blue to let me know she wanted to visit.
My mom and I share space very well, we don’t get in each other’s way, and we’re courteous with our criticisms. We like working on our art projects together — mom is currently working with watercolors and I’ve discovered gouache paints — and twice a month, we’ll hang out in my art studio, listening to music and working on our art projects. Soon, I’ll run out of wall space because I’ve framed and displayed both of our completed artwork all throughout my home. It’s probably only a matter of time before some of our art pieces will find space at my parents’ house.
