Living as I do in this miniscule apartment, the most important work space is a chunk of kitchen counter about two feet by eighteen inches.
Yes, I have a perfectly good work table in my studio/bedroom, but I use it mostly for painting and storing crap. Printmaking and fooling around with leprous ponies occurs in the kitchen, because A) the lighting is better and B) water is right at hand for ease of cleanup.
Plus…well…you know how it is. It’s a rare studio that has the…the…something…that a kitchen has.
In a desperate attempt to retain organization–vital when your workspace is smaller than some art books–I’ve put my stuff into bins, to separate it from the mail, which also ends up on that counter, and the cooking, which is also done in and around that counter. I have the printmaking bin and the pony bin.
Today I’m addressing chicken prints–the last set should go out tomorrow, by the way–and I hear “Thump. Thump. Lick. Lick. Lick. Thump. Lick. Lick. Lick. Crinkle. Lick. Thump.”
I peer over, and discover Ben, face first in the pony bin, determinedly grooming the mane on what will hopefully become Botfly Pony. The crinkling was the tape (I’d taped the mane back, since I’m doing a repaint, but not a re-root on this one.) and the thump was the sound of the bin being physically lifted off the ground with each particularly enthusiastic lick.
He looked up guiltily–what? Oh, this. Errr. He was….um…taste testing to make sure it wasn’t a ninja. Yeah. That’s it. He’s a big brawny male cat. He’s macho. He doesn’t play with My Little Ponies or anything. That would be…err…well, he doesn’t. Really. It could have been a small pink ninja. Ninjas wear pink sometimes. Those are the really dangerous ones.
My cat is weird.