The path to my new studio
lined with old, soul-feeding trees.
The house, ca.1850, where the forester for the Perlacher Forst once lived, complete with wooden shutters and antlers. My new studio waits behind the top left window.
At the edge of town in the Fasangarten. Where the pheasants used to roam.
I adore old houses. Their secrets. Their twists and turns. Each flake of paint a fragment of forgotten memory.
Doors within doors.
The old green walls of my room.
A neutral, new white after a few hours.
Old window clasp.
Apples just out of reach.
The spider who kept a careful eye on my paint roller.
The floors. Wide beams with hand-hewn flooring nails.
Beautiful collages made of the remnants of old newspapers that had been pasted to the floor years and years ago.
Stairs that twist up to an attic.
A room to store paintings. And to talk with ghosts.
A new phase in an old-souled house.