I found out yesterday that I would need to leave my studio and move to a new space by the end of this week. This news came to me as a shock. The area where my studio has been for the last two years is being refurbished over the summer. My initial reactions to this news went thus: anger, denial, anger, outrage, denial, doubt, acceptance, sadness, anger, rebellion. Rebellion is the one that stuck for most of yesterday.
Last night, as I fell reluctantly into sleep, my thoughts leaned towards doing an Arthur Dent, camping out in my space, arms folded, waiting for the diggers to approach me with their ominous teeth. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, however, my thoughts veered more towards responding as a reasonable person might do by packing up my stuff and moving. This morning, upon fully waking, I decided on the latter strategy. Resistance is often not only futile, it can look a bit silly.
My sadness upon leaving my space stems from the fact that I get very attached to spaces, and objects, and familiarity. Every time I move house, I feel a wrench of pain. Every time I finish a job, a period of education or a relationship of some sort, whether it be friendship or otherwise, I feel that same sense of fear and anxiety. New beginnings can be scary. I have built up my MA studio space very gradually over two years, including much doodling on the walls. My space represents my creative brain. It is my thoughts spread out. Last night, I didn’t want to have to leave it, move it, or do anything to it. I love my space. It is me. I am it.
However, perhaps I am rather dramatic. I write this now on the other side of the move, I have just completed the change over. I haven’t moved far. My new studio space is a bigger place, a brighter place and a more communal place. So in those terms, this change is a good thing. A move sometimes sparks new creativity. I had been guilty of nesting myself in a corner. I reasoned today that I need to look at things afresh.
The move took 15 trips to shift all of my stuff to my new space. I felt a pulling sense of sadness dismantling my beloved wall, removing all the images and text that have built up over two years. However, it is all still in me. It just isn’t visible at the moment. It’s sitting in a pile in my new space.
I now have a fresh white wall. I can put new things on it. I can draw and write new things on it. It will give me new inspirations.
The pleasure I feel, unexpectedly, is the same as having fresh bed linen.
Night, night! Time to sleep, perchance to dream of new ideas.