In high school my painting teacher was a talented watercolorist who delighted in giving us homework in the abysmal medium. I was consistently lax with all home assignments, and found myself at my grandparent’s house for one or another holiday with watercolor homework to taint vacation. A house-hold search for inspiration ended in my grandfather’s closet with the discovery of an old, stained boot. I set the worn shoe in the small jungle of houseplants he and Grandma kept in their den, then sat cross-legged on the floor to copy its likeness. The final picture was of a monarch butterfly resting on the tip of an old shoe lost in the woods. Later that week, Grandpa had a heck of a time finding his boot, but his annoyance dissolved when he discovered that his shoe was not missing, it had simply gone out for a photo shoot. I think it pleased him to know that something of his had been immortalized by the family’s artist in residence.
Now, some nine years later, my grandparent’s house may be the site of further inspiration. A week ago I agreed to a 2009 painting exhibition without a studio in which to work. The very next day it occurred to me that my Grandma has the perfect space: my late grandfather’s basement woodshop.
Grandma gave me her permission to use the shop, and I’ve been busy sweeping the sawdust off the countertops and machinery. The saws and drills are solid metal—unmovable; clearing enough room to feel comfortable is like wanting elbow-room in the belly of a World War II submarine. But then the room is cool, ventilated, and bright—in happy contrast to the last poorly lit studio I had in Oxford, which baked at 105 every July.
What the woodshop has that no other room can offer is the latent creativity of my grandpa’s genius. I’ve been stumbling on the mysterious remnants of his work: notes in the cupboards, unfinished odds and ends. I opened an unlabelled jar of pungent epoxy, a punch to the nose that sent me flying back to childhood, when the studio was a private, cavernous den of a man so tall and gruff we called him The Bear but so sweet on us we didn’t shy away from venturing into his cave to watch him work and to ask for dollhouses.
Jumping at the sight of spiders while tripping on the strings of an apron two sizes too big, I feel a bit like that little girl who approached the woodshop with hushed curiosity. In any case, it will take several works of genius before I can fit my grandfather’s shoes.
