life is a garden ➿ and the roots are all touching
home studio ☆ 11/27/25
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beginnings of my home studio in new york from the summer
in baltimore and honolulu, i had studio spaces outside of my home/bedroom. for seven years, i was graced with a $250/month studio space with ample wall and storage space. my average painting size was about 30” x 40”. i had a small reading room’s quantity of books that sat comfortably next to me.
ever since i moved to new york, i’ve been back to working out of a home studio, and it’s been... fine. it is mostly good. sufficient. it definitely has it’s limitations, and it’s physical limitations are probably why any paintings haven’t been completed in the past year. i haven’t even dared to begin a 30” x 40” painting. working out of my room isn’t optimal, but most things in 2025 aren’t. i’m grateful to have any space at all.
my current bedroom (and studio) is one that i graciously was grandfathered into by a previous tenant who left their bed and dresser. i haven’t added any new furniture, and it took me about six months to realize that the original bed and dresser configuration was bad feng shui. my running joke is that i live in a boy room, which isn’t actually much of a joke at all. i’ve rearranged since, and upon maximizing my square footage, i was able to free up some wall space to become my “studio”, which is just some duck canvas pinned to the wall, along with a blanket drop cloth and shit stacked on top of each other (in the spirit of consistency, all of my studios have piles of shit stacked on top of each other).
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barely 2 yard sticks width of space
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in desperate need of a filing system![]()
drawings stacked
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most recent work
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testing stuff on transparent paper
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embroidery... making use of my fiber degree
a home studio isn’t optimal, for i often have to physically step out of my workspace and leave my supplies as they were, so that when i return, i can pick up where my train of thought last left off. in some neurotic logic, tidying my studio too much makes it difficult to work in. people with pristine studios freak me out.
✰
a studio can be anywhere. though i’ve always believed this, this year i’ve had to take my own advice and make wherever, whenever, by any means necessary, a studio. i’ve been drawing on the train, on the bus, at the skatepark, at the bar, on the fire escape at work, on a park bench, at the metro north station, while eating a meal alone, at the library, at the museum, on a ferry going to rockaway beach, while visiting a friend at work, in between shifts at work - i may have hit a personal record for sites my sketchbook(s) have visited in a single state.
before surrendering to the fate of having a home studio, i designated some public spaces i considered to be my post-studio studios, like marsha p johnson park. a depressed person loves their shoreside nature pathway with seating, and boy am i a fucking depressed person who loves to stare at water!!
in late summer, it is a beautiful place to sit, draw, and cry. i did a lot of that this year.
a studio is a place to fully access the agony i repress to get through my day to day tasks. a studio cannot be an inhibited place. a park far from my own neighborhood i sleep in, i do not recognize people as regulars, and with the amount of tourists around, there is a sense of anonymity i can trust. my interiority is protected, even amongst large crowds of people. a studio needs to be a place where my interiority is protected.
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drawing in the sand at marsha p johnson state park
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drawing while sitting on a slab of stone at marsha p johnson state park
beginnings of my home studio in new york from the summer in baltimore and honolulu, i had studio spaces outside of my home/bedroom. for seven years, i was graced with a $250/month studio space with ample wall and storage space. my average painting size was about 30” x 40”. i had a small reading room’s quantity of books that sat comfortably next to me.
ever since i moved to new york, i’ve been back to working out of a home studio, and it’s been... fine. it is mostly good. sufficient. it definitely has it’s limitations, and it’s physical limitations are probably why any paintings haven’t been completed in the past year. i haven’t even dared to begin a 30” x 40” painting. working out of my room isn’t optimal, but most things in 2025 aren’t. i’m grateful to have any space at all.
my current bedroom (and studio) is one that i graciously was grandfathered into by a previous tenant who left their bed and dresser. i haven’t added any new furniture, and it took me about six months to realize that the original bed and dresser configuration was bad feng shui. my running joke is that i live in a boy room, which isn’t actually much of a joke at all. i’ve rearranged since, and upon maximizing my square footage, i was able to free up some wall space to become my “studio”, which is just some duck canvas pinned to the wall, along with a blanket drop cloth and shit stacked on top of each other (in the spirit of consistency, all of my studios have piles of shit stacked on top of each other).
barely 2 yard sticks width of space
in desperate need of a filing system
drawings stacked
most recent work
testing stuff on transparent paper
embroidery... making use of my fiber degree
a home studio isn’t optimal, for i often have to physically step out of my workspace and leave my supplies as they were, so that when i return, i can pick up where my train of thought last left off. in some neurotic logic, tidying my studio too much makes it difficult to work in. people with pristine studios freak me out.
✰
a studio can be anywhere. though i’ve always believed this, this year i’ve had to take my own advice and make wherever, whenever, by any means necessary, a studio. i’ve been drawing on the train, on the bus, at the skatepark, at the bar, on the fire escape at work, on a park bench, at the metro north station, while eating a meal alone, at the library, at the museum, on a ferry going to rockaway beach, while visiting a friend at work, in between shifts at work - i may have hit a personal record for sites my sketchbook(s) have visited in a single state.
before surrendering to the fate of having a home studio, i designated some public spaces i considered to be my post-studio studios, like marsha p johnson park. a depressed person loves their shoreside nature pathway with seating, and boy am i a fucking depressed person who loves to stare at water!!
in late summer, it is a beautiful place to sit, draw, and cry. i did a lot of that this year.
a studio is a place to fully access the agony i repress to get through my day to day tasks. a studio cannot be an inhibited place. a park far from my own neighborhood i sleep in, i do not recognize people as regulars, and with the amount of tourists around, there is a sense of anonymity i can trust. my interiority is protected, even amongst large crowds of people. a studio needs to be a place where my interiority is protected.
drawing in the sand at marsha p johnson state park
drawing while sitting on a slab of stone at marsha p johnson state park
drawing with amanda at time again
![]()
drawing with amanda at time again... again
![]()
drawing at a laundromat by anna’s place
![]()
drawing at a cabin upstate during a small retreat![]()
sitting and drawing by the algae infested pond at prospect park in the summertime, i think i cried then too
being studio-less brings considerable reflection on what my pratice means to me, and leads back to the trite, never-ending question of...
what does it really mean to be an artist? who is an artist without a studio?
(as i’ve most likely stated somewhere before,) being an artist lies in the intentionality that one observes and engages with the world, and the work made is a mere synthesis (or rather, excretement) of said observation and engagement. hence, why the home studio is not always optimal: i wake up every morning to see a mass of my own excretement. eugh.
in a way, though, it has been pleasant to work till i am exhausted, rolling right into bed after a short commute to the bathroom to brush my teeth. i know it isn’t the best practice, but sometimes i fall asleep with paint still on my hands, with quite a few charcoal stains on my bedsheets. i should probably just drink a tube of cadmium red while i’m at it.
my need to make is compulsive. not making work is the metaphysical equivalent of constipation. i am not playing around when i say that my work is, at the end of the day, an excretement of sorts.
a studio is a container: without the artist and their practice, there is nothing to contain. the studio doesn’t make the aritst, but the artist sure as hell makes good use of the studio.
as eye-roll inducing as it is, my woo-woo belief is that a studio practice isn’t tied to a physical place: it is whatever ritual you make, wherever your heart is.
if i always had access to a studio, this website probably would not have ever come to life, and i probably wouldn’t have drawn in all those random ass places.
i’m grateful for my compulsion to make, as it makes me adapt to my ever-changing circumstances, circumstances that have been shifting since the beginning of time. change is my constant, change is my teacher, change is my reaper: change is the guardian angel that firmly, lovingly, ushers me forward.
i am surprised by other artists who say that they don’t make work anymore because of their space limitations. logistically, i get it, but spiritually, it feels suffocating. hyperbolic, maybe, but it feels like i will die if i stop making. i can’t afford getting that backed up. that constipated.
i remember those air-conditioning-less, humid summers home from college in hawai’i at my parent’s condo, ass on the floor, hunched over and making a painting, getting reprimanded for staining the carpet. even before then, i was always hunched over on the ground, making something in my bedroom for as long as i can remember. i was always getting reprimanded for staining the carpet. i spent so many hours at my childhood desk scanning photos and making drawings under lamplight, and in those moments, i would fantasize about having a studio, much like the ones i’ve been lucky enough to have over the years.
a fourteen year old self would find my pushing-thirty self really cool, and find it funny that i’m back to working out of my bedroom. my practice keeps me in dialogue with selves of the past, present, and future.
maybe it’s just something i say to make myself feel better, but i’m glad that i just have a home studio right now, recalling to a past self, content with making things in the confinement of my bedroom. not even just content, like, i think i was really happy - i was really happy to just to be able to make. to just be able.
the shape of my studios morph, but my practice has always been with me, in stride with the changes, the ever-changing circumstances. it’s been a long year of being everywhere all at once, and the last thing i need is another place to go. so, home studio, we’ll keep riding till the wheels fall off.
note to future self: just because you have access to a ceramics studio does not mean you do not need a studio for other things. your practice is a cycle of creating a 3-d object (ceramics), flattening it (drawing and painting) and reflecting (writing), not exclusively in this order. your practice cannot be one or the other: these parts are all in symbiosis. everything suffers when you negate one.
drawing with amanda at time again... again
drawing at a laundromat by anna’s place
drawing at a cabin upstate during a small retreat
sitting and drawing by the algae infested pond at prospect park in the summertime, i think i cried then too
being studio-less brings considerable reflection on what my pratice means to me, and leads back to the trite, never-ending question of...
what does it really mean to be an artist? who is an artist without a studio?
(as i’ve most likely stated somewhere before,) being an artist lies in the intentionality that one observes and engages with the world, and the work made is a mere synthesis (or rather, excretement) of said observation and engagement. hence, why the home studio is not always optimal: i wake up every morning to see a mass of my own excretement. eugh.
in a way, though, it has been pleasant to work till i am exhausted, rolling right into bed after a short commute to the bathroom to brush my teeth. i know it isn’t the best practice, but sometimes i fall asleep with paint still on my hands, with quite a few charcoal stains on my bedsheets. i should probably just drink a tube of cadmium red while i’m at it.
my need to make is compulsive. not making work is the metaphysical equivalent of constipation. i am not playing around when i say that my work is, at the end of the day, an excretement of sorts.
a studio is a container: without the artist and their practice, there is nothing to contain. the studio doesn’t make the aritst, but the artist sure as hell makes good use of the studio.
as eye-roll inducing as it is, my woo-woo belief is that a studio practice isn’t tied to a physical place: it is whatever ritual you make, wherever your heart is.
if i always had access to a studio, this website probably would not have ever come to life, and i probably wouldn’t have drawn in all those random ass places.
i’m grateful for my compulsion to make, as it makes me adapt to my ever-changing circumstances, circumstances that have been shifting since the beginning of time. change is my constant, change is my teacher, change is my reaper: change is the guardian angel that firmly, lovingly, ushers me forward.
i am surprised by other artists who say that they don’t make work anymore because of their space limitations. logistically, i get it, but spiritually, it feels suffocating. hyperbolic, maybe, but it feels like i will die if i stop making. i can’t afford getting that backed up. that constipated.
i remember those air-conditioning-less, humid summers home from college in hawai’i at my parent’s condo, ass on the floor, hunched over and making a painting, getting reprimanded for staining the carpet. even before then, i was always hunched over on the ground, making something in my bedroom for as long as i can remember. i was always getting reprimanded for staining the carpet. i spent so many hours at my childhood desk scanning photos and making drawings under lamplight, and in those moments, i would fantasize about having a studio, much like the ones i’ve been lucky enough to have over the years.
a fourteen year old self would find my pushing-thirty self really cool, and find it funny that i’m back to working out of my bedroom. my practice keeps me in dialogue with selves of the past, present, and future.
maybe it’s just something i say to make myself feel better, but i’m glad that i just have a home studio right now, recalling to a past self, content with making things in the confinement of my bedroom. not even just content, like, i think i was really happy - i was really happy to just to be able to make. to just be able.
the shape of my studios morph, but my practice has always been with me, in stride with the changes, the ever-changing circumstances. it’s been a long year of being everywhere all at once, and the last thing i need is another place to go. so, home studio, we’ll keep riding till the wheels fall off.
note to future self: just because you have access to a ceramics studio does not mean you do not need a studio for other things. your practice is a cycle of creating a 3-d object (ceramics), flattening it (drawing and painting) and reflecting (writing), not exclusively in this order. your practice cannot be one or the other: these parts are all in symbiosis. everything suffers when you negate one.
last edited 11/27/25