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A Window To A Dream

The painting I bought,
hanging above my drawing table.
Today is that time of year again - the time where artists all over town open their studios and welcome visitors into their workspace. 

I remember one occasion when this happened in my old hometown and I went with my mum. We had picked random artists nearby, and I was shocked to discover someone whose work hung in my school. They were alive! Real artists! They got paid for art! (In that case, the artist in question was Siegfried Adam.) 

Last year, I went to visit artists in Potsdam for the first time, and I even bought a painting (by Angela Frübing)!
(And I freaked out about it! Who buys paintings?!)

On both occasions, I remember being curious, but shy and too afraid to ask anything (let alone to think of any questions). I just walked through these amazing spaces, and marvelled at the creativity of all the people I encountered.

Today, I went to an incredible place that offers workspace for several artists. Everyone was doing their own thing, but they could meet in the kitchen or go visit each other's studio and talk about their art. Everybody was doing something different, but everybody had a space to work, a space to be free and to create. (And they had the light and the lack of distraction to go with it.)

There were two chairs piled on top of each other to make a comfy place in front of the easel, there were misused coffee cups and splatters on the floor and huge windows, and there was art everywhere. 
There was also a bad smell near the toilets, and a distinctly 70s feel to the building, and it was near impossible to find and is a long way from the town center, BUT ... it was a space for art. For artists. 

My companion was about as shy as I was in previous years, yet we were early and so the artists were up for talking, so I talked. And I looked. I asked questions about the art, and I didn't feel stupid saying things I thought about the work. I didn't feel stupid looking at everything and not just making sure that my gaze always stayed on a finished work. I wasn't in awe of brush collections or sketchbooks or unfinished works on the easel. I was imagining.

I thought what it might be like to have such a space to work in myself. I thought about how the supplies were arranged and how I would go about it. I looked at the developing series and ideas, and wondered how I would go about creating my own projects. 
It was no longer as overwhelming to see an artist in their enviroment as it was when I was younger, and more unexperienced in art myself. Instead, it was a motivation. It was an opportunity to flesh out my dream of what I might want my future to look like. And when my companion said afterwards: "Maybe that's something for you, later?", I didn't feel daunted by the prospect. I didn't think that my level of art now is not at a point where I can consider that. Because that doesn't matter. I can practise. And now I can dream of where all that practice might take me one day as well :).

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