When I first decided in the early 1990s to follow in the footsteps of my eccentric grandmother Madeline (a painter and art teacher) and pursue a life in the visual arts, it seemed like a pretty straightforward career path. I’d first gone to art school, which would inevitably lead to the required (but I assumed somewhat glamorous) starving artist years in a large city. I’d have a loft studio full of interesting art and quirky visitors. With time, the art would become profitable, allowing for the word “starving” to be dropped from the occupation of “artist,” and the studio would evolve into a sophisticated laboratory of carefully curated whimsy. All of this wasn’t really just wishful thinking on my part, but more my own naive assumption that my career as an artist would evolve down a linear path, and a studio space would naturally be a companion on that journey. The studio would be the safe haven that gave my self-Ordained title of “Fine Artist” the stamp of legitimacy.
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