Artists’ studios are fascinating places . . . little bits of this and that. My grandfather was an artist and I remember going down the creaky basement steps to his studio. The smell of oil paints, linseed oil and turpentine filtered through the air. The basement floor was cracked and painted over and the cracks became part of a landscape with the old fruit baskets of toy cars that were my father’s. There was an old drain in the floor near the washer and dryer and I remember always jumping over it. The sound of the ceiling light chain being pulled revealing what my grandfather was working on. I loved going down there. Those are very treasured memories for me.
My studio has become a little place where my grandson likes to wander and we chat about a pair of eye glasses that were my dad’s. He tries them on. There is one particular brush he seems to like to hold and pretends to paint the books on the shelves. He likes to open the door on my old french cabinet and see what’s inside, opening the little drawer whose knob always falls off. I wonder if he will remember this fondly too . . .