When I was twenty and studying art in undergrad, I house sat for my parents one summer and built my entire senior show in their kitchen. I remember the feeling or horror one day when cutting out a shape with the jigsaw and accidentally making a slice into the tabletop that my mother had hand stained when I was an infant. Three decades later and I’m still making most of my work in the kitchen. I have a studio about fifty feet from the house in a shipping container – but the kitchen is oh so more comfortable. At least until Emmett, comes home and starts at his own art experiments precariously poised on top of one of my own almost completed billboard paintings.
For the last few years my house has been mice full on. There is a crack under the door that I can’t (or won’t) do much about which has become an open invitation to every desert rat to come party between the rafters of my ceiling at night time when we are trying to sleep, and to poop in my cutlery drawers right before company comes for a cook-over. Finally this winter I thought I had the problem licked, but when TK was installing the new hall cabinet we found a seemingly fresh and soft mouse nest under the toe-kick of the old cabinet.