When I ran into an artist friend in a hardware store years ago, he told me he was shopping for an extra lock to put on his studio door because he was tired of relatives looking inside and describing his area as “disgusting”, “deplorable” or “downright dangerous”.
I told him that in our modern, “twist tie society”, while visitors to arts and crafts shows greatly admire the products on display there, most viewers would be horrified should they be privileged to be invited into whatever hallowed space an artist or craftsman considers to be sacred.
The journey taken by tubes of paint, brushes, and canvas or a tree stump and carving tools is not a process that evokes visions of an angelic choir singing “Gloria!”. Nor is there a need for creatives to occupy a pristine hall with daily maid service. Given a flat space of any size, they will “make do”. If that space is large, they will expand the tools of their trade but if it is small they will stack and shelve.
It may take a week for a creative to pick up from the floor some dropped objects, but on another occasion, the pickup could be immediate. Papers might remain cluttered on a table or carefully quickly returned to a designated shelf. A floor might be swept clean immediately or littered with wood shavings, plaster dust, or miscellaneous bubble wrap until later in the week.
Countless jars and boxes of all sizes have a meaning for whoever stashed them in a pile or stacked them in a corner or on a shelf. Heaven forbid a “twist tie society” member ever tries to read the “ever planning ahead” mind of an artist or craftsman. Said member would be disorientated by the labyrinth maze encountered during the first five seconds of an unceremonious visit.
I wish I had used the foresight of installing a studio lock as did my artist friend. It would have saved me continuous criticism in the past. And probably much in the future as well. Now that I think of it, looking up at the clock, I see the hardware store is still open.