The Only Place on Earth
OR My Studio My Music
In my recent conversation with Jerome China he described how he sits in silence for 15 minutes before he steps in his backyard studio. Not thinking, not planning, just clearing his mind. It’s a Buddhist practice, one he doesn’t always manage daily, but when he does, it marks the boundary between the world that demands compromise and the sanctuary where he doesn’t have to give an inch.
“It’s literally the only place that I have where I don’t have to compromise anything”, Jerome told me during our recent podcast conversation. “In relationships there’s compromise. If you have a job, there’s some compromise, basically just to go along with people. But when I go in my studio, I don’t have to compromise anything.”
I understood immediately what Jerome meant, though my own studio sanctuary looks nothing like his metal-working space. Mine occupies the top floor of an old house, a room flooded with light from two windows, wooden floors that creak, and a wall easel that holds whatever painting I want to work on.
I don’t hang much of my finished art in my studio, unless I’m preparing for a studio visit or like in my studio headshot have my photo taken. What’s done is done. I don’t want to be distracted by past decisions when I’m trying to make new ones. Instead the room holds other objects that matter to me. There’s the printer cabinet that I brought over from Germany, it is a heavy massive piece- cursed by many a movers - which used to house wooden block printing letters - some of them I got with the cabinet. It belonged to an old printmaking teacher and I think if he were still alive, he’d appreciate that the piece found a loving home and even made its way across the ocean. It’s many small drawers now hold my paints, stencils and other material, organized in a system only I understand.
On a shelf sits a photo of me and my first dog - I was in kindergarden when my mom smuggled the puppy in in a basket when she picked me up. An antique typewriter from Germany reminds me of my past life as a paralegal and my enduring love for writing. Also I did learn typewriting - it feels still naturally to hammer those keys and wait for the ding. Old ledgers I collect become surfaces for sketches, little paintings or pattern play, their faded columns and carefully handwritten columns offering history as a substrate.And scattered throughout are small gifts from dear friends - a scarab my highschool friend brought me 35 years ago from Egypt, a feather from a friends parrot, book marks from Mexico, a stained glass bird, little notes and pieces they send me in the mail because they thought of me when they saw it. These are things with good energy- they were given with love and I cherish them.
The cat tree near the window is where I will be watched from while I work. The cats love hanging out with me, sometimes they are the only witnesses to the struggle of a painting or the quiet satisfaction when things come together.
My ritual, if you can call it that, begins with coffee in the morning and music. Always music. This is my no-compromise zone when it comes to sound. My husband Jim, who plays in a band and thinks deeply about music (he’s very opinionated about it, I’ll admit with love), respects that in here, I choose. My taste is eclectic - mostly alternative with jazz and classical sprinkled in. I can shift from Jeff Rosenstock or The Beths to Samara Joy or Eric Satie without explanation and just because I feel like it.
Sometimes I listen to podcasts, but only when I’m doing work that won’t pull me into that drifting-away state where hours pass without me noticing. Otherwise I’ll realize I’ve missed most of the episode, even if I loved that little I caught.
Like Jerome, I don’t go into my studio every day. Sometimes weeks pass - I used to feel guilty about it. I’ve many artists friends who thrive on a daily nine-to-five discipline. But Jerome articulated something I’d felt but couldn’t quite name. “I don’t beat myself up if I’m not in my studio for a week or even a couple months. It’s just that I’m busy doing other things or, at that particular time, I just don’t have anything to say artistically.”
That resonates with me. When I am in my studio, I produce. When I don’t, I’m usually in a transition phase and not ready for it. I feel happy in my studio - even if I do not make art- just knowing it is there and waiting for me - this little sanctuary is enough to make me feel ok.
Thank you Jerome for reminding me on this - it was a great conversation to reflect this on.
Do you have a sacred space, where you don’t have to compromise? It doesn’t have to be a studio - and you don’t have to be an artist- I would love to hear about it.
Listen to my full conversation with Jerome China in Episode #17 of Nat’s Sidewalk Stories, available now.
