“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” (Virginia Woolf)

Right? Well, not necessarily. My writing days are over, but when I did consider myself primarily a writer I did my best work when I didn’t have a room of my own. When, in fact, I had to fight to find a space for myself. Perhaps the lack of space added urgency to my need to write.

Sometimes the conditions are genuinely impossible, but conditions don’t need to be perfect, and sometimes it’s tempting to use the lack of space/place as an excuse not to write/create.

For a while I had a room of my own, when I lived on my own in a two-bed flat. I converted the second bedroom into a home office space, but having a room of my own was something I found counter-productive. I felt intimidated by the creative space I’d made for myself. Did it feel too easy, perhaps, not having to fight to make my mark? A bit sterile, too much like a proper work-work environment?

Bookcase in the living room stacked with art supplies including boxes containing gel plates, stencils, acrylic paints, book spines, metal washers, coins, etc.

Having said all that, I still crave my own art studio in the same way that I used to crave a dedicated personal library; but it’s the idea I crave and I know in reality it might not work for me. The size of our house being what it is, I can’t make that happen in any event. So, I’ve learned to adjust and compromise, and it hasn’t always been easy, but somehow it works.

My art supplies are strewn all over the house: it’s chaotic, disorganised, and half the time I can’t remember what I’ve stored where, despite making lists (which I forget to consult). When it comes to making collages, my ‘studio’ is the kitchen counter, fridge-freezer to the left of me, coffee machine to the right. It’s cramped, messy, unworkable; and yet, somehow, it does work. Perhaps it’s the sense of doing something almost clandestinely, under the radar, which possibly stems from the impostor syndrome that is the constant companion of many (most?) creative people.

Boxes in the dining room containing seashells, metal washers, matchbooks, driftwood, etc.

I think, also, there’s a sense of playfulness I find in making art in random, unsuitable corners of the house. Why not, after all, use a kitchen space – where food is also created – for the making of art? It’s all sustenance, after all.

I reiterate: I dream of having my own studio space, of course I do. How amazing that would be! But life, after all, is often a question of compromising, of accepting that things rarely work out exactly as we’d like them to, and life throws us curveball after curveball. I’m determined to make the most of what I have. It might not be perfect, it might even be hugely unsatisfactory, but despite not having a room of my own I can nearly always manage to carve out a creative space for myself, wherever I happen to be.