I haven't had an art studio in 12 years. Calling it a studio is perhaps a bit generous, as it was really just half of the rotted-out second floor of an old Chinese pool hall in downtown Seattle that I converted into a live-work space for myself after striking a deal with the landlord that he allow me to live there cheap ($600/mo for ~800sqft in Pioneer Square) while he renovated the building above, below, and around me, but I was able to do whatever I wanted in there. And I did.
I don't have many photos of the place. I don't think I have any from when I was busy working in it. But I do have this one that my friend, Conor, took when he came out to help me clear the space out before I moved to NYC.
You can see a few pieces I made in that studio up against the wall in the left of the image. That's where I had my drum kit, keyboards, amps, etc. before I got rid of them. That's my cat, Ro, in the middle. He was only two then. The light was a broken fluorescent ballast that I was able to repair and ride home from the hardware store where I worked at the time by strapping it to my back with duct tape. The paint on the wall below the light was mostly overspray, save for the critters my girlfriend drew on there the few times she came over. I was an utter wreck when this photo was taken. Shaking, sobbing.
I have so many stories and memories from this place. More than anywhere else I've lived since I left my hometown.
This past weekend, I moved my modest assortment of art supplies, a few drawing pads, my lightly used easel, and a terrifyingly blank canvas into a corporate-run storage unit partitioned out of an old tobacco factory here in Richmond. It's seven or eight blocks from my apartment. The air inside is stale and musty. The old floorboards are warped and creaky. The bricks of the walls crumble when touched.
I have 24/7 access and paid a local electrician to wire up a couple outlets for me.