Mine is a tale too common of late, and it could be much, much worse but it has left me unmoored… Last spring I lost my job that had been more of an obsession, a way of life, than just a place to go and do something in exchange for money. I left my beloved small city that I had threatened to leave so many times in the earlier years, but I discovered that I had grown with it, and really loved it after all. I now live with the generosity of my partner N in the grey areas of the suburban outskirts of the east coast where fantastic cities are an hour’s drive away, yet a walk outside my door is impossible due to the overwhelming and maddening car culture of the area. In my former city, we had a humble house of our own, technically two and one half stories, but you can call it three. The two rooms on the third floor were my “studio” as well as the depository for off season clothing since the old structure only had tiny closets from the time we owned so much less. In one room was my sewing machine in a little window nook, birds-eye level with the trees in the back and a tiny glimpse of a beautiful cemetery one block away.
In the other was a comfy window seat where we napped and watched the neighbors come and go from the bus stop. The middle of the floor was about the size of a king sized bed, so I could lay out my quilts to piece and baste. Both rooms had shelves lining the walls so most of my various stashes were visible and accessible. We lovingly restored the house to something of its original state and spent days and lung tissue stripping off the shellac on these floors and finishing them to an outrageous glossiness. Our realtor took this picture, and it appeared on the listing of the house when it sold. No one questioned having a photo of a room with a dead pheasant (which my grandfather killed decades before I was born) perhaps since hunting was popular in the rural areas outside of the city.
The curtains were a vintage find to the precise length needed for the windows, and I regret not photographing them in detail, but they continue to live in the house (I hope). I am still lucky enough to have a workspace in our temporary rented apartment, but it is shared with our boxed up lives, my part-time work-from-home station, and all stashed materials are now boxed and stacked high, or bagged and lumped. It is hard to finish things in this state, especially when I know I have the perfect handles or thread somewhere, just somewhere, but can’t find them…
One response to “Missing my studio and my old city…”
I miss the city too!