That’s how I felt last night. My arms were sore and heavy, either from carrying all the things or simply from being connected to my tired body.
That’s how I feel today, the day after. I’ve had shows before, but this one was different. This time I hosted three additional artists. It was the first time I’d done such a thing, the first time I felt the nervous excitement of the responsibility of caring for someone else’s work, someone’s else’s vision, someone else’s precious time.
I dipped back into my museum days, those quirky years in my early 20’s when my job was the delicate work of handling and hanging artwork worth more than I had to my name. It all came flooding back: find the height, divide by two, plus 47, minus the distance to the hangers; always two.
That’s how the table in my wood shop looked, brimming with slices of sourdough, cubes of cheese, freshly washed grapes, bottles of wine. By the end it looked like I felt: depleted, yet satisfied.
Alan made a comment a few weeks ago about my studio, the space we spent so much time and effort building. A labor of love for nearly seven years. We weren’t fully utilizing the space, he noted. Not a criticism. He was right. We were still investing. We had dreams and visions of shows and gatherings, of classes and community. We’d barely scratched the surface. But yesterday? The vision was made real. This is what it was made for.
It’s a strange feeling to have a space dictate what it wants. I’m not used to inanimate objects dreaming bigger than I. But it did; I heard it clearly. It was never meant to be just a workroom. It’s an extrovert, that space – even if I’m not. It feeds off the energy of others. I need to honor that.
I sit in the once bustling space and take in the silence. The calm after the storm. I breathe in the lingering energy as it slowly dissipates around me. I feel the stillness return and the weight settle into my body.