I have a dream....
Not to trivialize Dr. King's wonderful speech, but it's true. I had the dream last night.
I dreamed I walked into my studio and SOMEONE HAD CLEANED!!
Somehow this was even more amazing than if someone had cleaned my house. After all, if someone were to clean my house, they could pick up a coffee mug and have an idea of where to put it away. But my STUDIO?
The dream was so real, I even remember asking if the person who'd cleaned it had just stuffed everything into boxes (and therefore it was all lost forever) or had really organized and put stuff away in its proper place. "Of course I put everything away!" was the indignant response from my husband (which is how I knew it was really just a dream. It might be possible someone had cleaned my studio, but not my husband.)
I taught a double workshop yesterday on self-promotion for artists and beginning wholesaling (at the Fiber Art Center in Amherst, MA). One of the attendants mentioned that a crafts business magazine I'd brought had an article on cleaning your studio, and everyone dove for it. I remarked that sometimes a studio just felt like another house to clean, and everyone fervently agreed.
I'm one of those people who could have gone into archeology. Every flat surface of my studio is covered with piles of books, papers, files and supplies. I find what I need by remembering which pile something is in, and estimating how far down it will be. If I move a pile or redistribute the contents, I'm hopelessly lost. I've tried all kinds of filing systems and organizational devices over the years. They work for awhile, and then systematic chaos sets in again. (Or is it a chaotic system?)
My best solution has been to schedule an open studio once a year, usually around this time. It's guaranteed to work. The thought of the humiliation I'd suffer if my audience saw my studio the way it is today is enough to send me into a panic and spur me onto cleaning frenzy. It's primitive--but it works.
Having said that, let me tell you what true love is. And clear my beloved husband's name at the same time.
In our old house (before we bought this house and relocated both our home businesses), we decided to remodel an attic space off my old studio into a home office for my husband. It was our first experience with construction and a contractor, and we had absolutely no idea what to expect. I asked the contractor if I needed to remove or protect my shelves of fabric, my sewing machine and other equipment and supplies stuffed into my studio (which was connected.) Oh no, he reassured us, we'll hang some plastic in the doorway and that will keep all the dust out. No need to worry.
Like fools, we believed him.
You who have been through the smallest remodeling project are either overcome with pity or rolling on the floor laughing right now. I won't go into the horrible details, but let's just say a week later, my studio looked like those undersea images of the Titanic. Everything covered in a ghostly rime of white plaster dust.
I was immobilized with panic. It was such a disaster, I could not even lift a finger to start the clean-up. I would walk into my studio, become overwhelmed with anger and angst, and walk out. The only things not covered in dust were my sewing machine and other electrical/mechanical equipment I'd prudently covered despite the contractor's repeated claims they would not be affected.
After two weeks of complaining and crying to my husband, the most incredible thing happened. One day I walked into my studio, expecting the usual freak show--and everything was clean. Not sparkling clean, but adequately cleaned. Enough for me to get back to work. Shelves had been wiped, fabric had been dusted off, the floor had been swept.
My husband (who loathes housework like many of his species) had simply decided he would do it. He thought he'd jump in and see how hard it was. Once he got started, it wasn't that big a deal, he said. It looked worse that it was, he said, though he admitted he didn't have the emotional investment in the process I did. It was just "stuff" to him that had to be wiped or dusted or shaken out, not antique paisley shawls, expensive silks or vintage cottons. It was obviously bothering me a lot, so he thought he would help.
You understand that, from here on out, no matter how bad things get, I can never, ever leave this man?
You can't expect marital miracles, or lightening, to strike twice. As I sit here this morning, I realize the only person who can slog through this mess is moi. With the help (and bribing) of two teens, of course. I love the fact that my kids will do almost anything for money. We raised them right.
But I'm glad I also remembered the Titanic studio... It puts it all into perspective somehow.
