Like many artists, I feel most at home in my studio. I have a nice small cottage-y house in the tiny village of Val Marie, Saskatchewan, gateway to Grasslands National Park, one of Canada’s most remote and beautiful locations. What would in a normal person’s house be the dining room has been turned into my studio and office and that’s where I spend most of my days. The studio isn’t huge but it’s bright and sweet and all mine, and everything I need to work with is there. Though sometimes, especially when I’m figuring out some new idea, the studio can spill over into the living room, dining area and kitchen.
And then the art cat helps.
The art cat understands inspiration. She knows the value of considering, of spending days imagining, of doing less. She knows what beauty is, because she inhabits beauty herself. She knows how to dream.
So now, after time with the art cat, I’ve begun something new. This period of exploration always feels scary and at the same time like a path is stretching out in front of me. It feels as though if I can see that path, all I have to do is follow.
Does the art cat wonder why I don’t accept her help more often?
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