Leaving a studio behind is emotional. And reflective.
It is an inevitable part of an artist’s life, usually marking a new chapter in their practice.
So much is embedded in the walls of a studio.
So much of the studio’s shades influence subconsciously the art production that takes place within its walls, on its floors, under its light and its breeze, or lack thereof.

Bringing the space back to its original state, to that empty plainness before your invasion of ideas, materials, sketches, notes, references, is a cleansing ritual: What you leave behind, what do you let slip into eventual oblivion. What you take with you, a trace, a souvenir for times rewarding, agonizing times.

What is let gone, which is about two thirds of my own experimentation, is equally trans-formative and in-formative to my next steps, if not even more so, than the tangible growing inventory.

Close attention is demanded to break through the shield of noise and look at the particles of silence that your practice is made of. The moments of learning through unlearning, expanding through releasing, writing (your future self) by erasing (what is not dimmed necessary now).

You will figure out what this a l l that happened here means, you hope. When you will look back, it will make sense. “It is poetry, it will make sense somewhen.” You say to yourself as you caress the painted surface one more (last) time, like a lover’s skin.

A precipice. A sunset. A spring.

“Enjoy the moment of sweat shed, enjoy the colors of the sky at the end of a well-spent day, get ready to dive in the newness of a night, a summer, a life. Another one.”