hannahmorris

Up on the Third Floor

I just moved into a new studio, a room on the third floor at Studio Place Arts (SPA). I’ve spent the past ten months at SPA as the resident artist, occupying a small studio on the second floor gratis. I decided, when my residency ended, that I wasn’t ready to leave SPA nor the opportunity of working in a studio separated from my house. Through snow, wind, rain, and sun, I have found that I love walking to and from the studio and home. We live midway up a hill here in Barre, so the walk is not insignificant, in terms of exercise for the legs and lungs. But I do enjoy the trip each time. So, I moved into an available space on the third floor, where I’ll share two-thirds of a large, airy room with fellow artist Athena Petra Tasiopoulos. There’s finally space for my rocking chair and stacks of art books that I can now sit down and read while drinking ginger tea. #whatcouldbebetter

My studio.

My studio.

Birds' Eye

Birds-eye-view, aerial, and panoramic views…why do I love it so? I’m working on a picture of Montpelier, VT, currently my hometown, and in doing so, I’m seeing what the wide world of Google has to offer me for references. So much overhead view! Is landscape a character? If attachment to a landscape supersedes other things like job opportunities, cost of living, diversity, are you crazy to remain attached? I find myself in that boat, tied up to a particular harbor. In my case, the boat is a canoe, and the harbor is a green bank on a Vermont lake. It’s frightening, committing to a place. My limitless view of the world (”I could go ANYWHERE…except maybe Afghanistan”) has tightened, the aperture dialed down, and gone is a periphery. Through my pinhole view, I gaze at the details. All of this is by choice - or is it? Is there a thread that keeps us tethered to a place, because the landscape matches up with our own shape? Like a giant hand moving puzzle pieces, slotting me in to this one little open space. 

Bird's eye vintage view, Montpelier, Vermont