This is a nearly completed room upstairs in the shop.  At least, complete in the sense that I’ve patched the holes in the walls and painted it (except for the small band around the bottom of them, where I’ll have to find a way to cram my fat self into those corners to finish it up). I’ve still got a little scraping to do on the floorboards that used to be  covered with assorted sizes of semi-melted tarpaper, because it was a sleeping area, and as everyone knows, tarpaper keeps the drafts out and the bedbugs from biting.*

At first, I thought this room might be suitable for storage, but upon reflection, I couldn’t imagine what I’d  store in it. Right now, for example, it’s about 130 degrees up there, a temperature at which some things are at the tender edge of bursting into flame, especially if abetted by old cans of solvents. I briefly considered using it for power yoga, but there being too many ways to die that are more fun and less embarrassing for the survivors, I decided to turn it into a (winter) studio. Long about January, it’ll be cool enough to  go up those steps, shut the door on that little Santayana-like place of meditation and stare at a blank piece of canvas until I weep blood.

Or I can go downstairs and make more studio gadgets. Or shelves that fit in strangely constructed rooms. I designed this beast specifically for this room, but it had to meet other criteria as well. It had to employ some of the scrap I’ve been tripping over at the shop, and it had to be simple enough I could assemble it at temperatures where amoeba forget what they’re supposed to do. I turned the legs out of some young poplars that I sawed out of a roadcut, that were way too pretty and uniform to use for firewood. I let them lay in the woods too long during the wet months, and they stained slightly, but poplar decays beautifully, and it turns easily, even on a cheesy mass produced half-assed lathe. I was aiming for something that looked like a technical solution to a drafting problem, and I wound up with a Shaker winged frog.

*I still don’t know what the tarpaper was for, but I suspect its use was imposed by a kind of poverty that would have sucked the air out of my lungs.

Advertisements