Hermit Diary, Montreal. 9. Leaving the Studio

This weekend we returned to our studio for what may be the last time in quite a while. Over the preceding days we had picked up art and textile supplies, my sewing machine, my husband's old negatives and his scanner, computer gear, and whatever else we thought we'd need the most. More importantly, we got our cat Manon, who has always lived there, and moved her to our apartment. She may be the only creature who thinks this virus is an excellent idea; it took her about twenty minutes to check everything out and settle in, and she seems completely contented now that she has us under her paws and watchful eye all day and all night.

I felt sad leaving the studio. My piano is there, and I'll miss it, and there's no way I can work on anything large or liquid or messy in this apartment. The studio is the only space I've ever had that was large enough for me to put my work up on the walls and live with it. There's been beautiful light, plenty of room to spread out, leave work in progress on the easel or table for weeks, be as messy as necessary and clean it all up in a big utility sink. This studio has been a physical reflection of my inner identity in a way no other space has been in my life; it's not only been a space to work in, but a large container for my thoughts and projects, for collaborations, and it's where a lot of books by other people have taken shape and ultimately been published. Its space has given me space.

Now I'm not sure we will ever go back to it fully. How will we feel when our lease runs out in mid-summer? What decisions will we have to make, and how will our lives have changed? As of today, non-essential work places are closed in Montreal. We can go there if absolutely necessary, but all of us have been asked to stay home, which is what my husband and I have been doing now for two weeks. Montrealers are quite compliant, but the authorities have the power to enforce compliance now.

I took this picture just before we left, because I wanted to have a record of how it was exactly, this section that is mine, out of of a much larger room. It doesn't show the easel, or the boxes of fabric and yarn, or my flat files filled with drawings and paintings from the past forty years and large sheets of blank drawing, watercolor, and printing papers. When I look at the picture, I see the place I stand and make art and write; the objects and surfaces I repeatedly touch. But what it gives me more strongly is a feeling. This is the place where I've struggled and worked for the past ten years, and where I've found solutions, not just to artistic or literary problems, but to understanding aspects of myself.

That, I know, can happen anywhere, and it will.