It felt so good.
Pulled me back more than twenty years.
I remember as a kid walking next door to my grandma Jan’s little house, where she taught all of us how to draw. We’d spread out books and photos all over the table and get to work. She’d disappear back into making her sourdough or warping a loom or doing whatever interesting thing she was doing, then come around every so often – bowl of soup in her hand, reading glasses low on her nose – observing her pupils for a minute or two before offering honest critiques and plenty of encouragement.
Best art teacher ever 🙂
After that sketch, I dove in the deep end: portraits. These are each a puzzle to solve – every stroke and value matters in achieving a true likeness or not. I’ve probably done twenty of them this year. But more on that next week.
As the drawings continued, something else also happened.
Little smudges of graphite began showing up on my pristine white oak desk. Charcoal on the terra-cotta pot for my cactus. Even several stubborn pencil marks on my desk, and on the floor under it (thanks to my 2-year-old apprentice).
Instead of freaking out about it, I’ve felt relieved. Comforted.
I’m finally, two years in, making the space truly my own. A patina is forming. Just like a new cast iron getting seasoned.
It feels alive.
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There’s a lesson here, and it isn’t just about studios.
You can feel the difference between something that’s been preserved and something practiced in.
How easy it is to fall into the trap of buying everything new. But you always feel it. When a space just has that sterile feeling, versus that slightly gritty, worn-in vibrancy. And that little distinction is so important.
Why? Because those little imperfections tell a story. A story about real people doing real stuff – like me finally overcoming my fears and procrastination. Good books are the same way. Doesn’t it feel great to pick up a well-loved book, pages dog-eared, notes scribbles and lines underlined?
This is what “makes a house a home” – whether for yourself, your family, or a stranger.
If you have an airbnb or a micro-resort and you want to tell a story through your space, one of the simplest, most important things you can do is not buy new everything. Absolutely destroys the vibe. Find used books, board games, records, art, furniture, cookware. That’s what I loved so much about this little gem we stayed at in rural Wisconsin. Everything told a story.
We’ve tried hard to do this with the train car, the Pie Safe, the Depot, Morning Glory Farm – and our new projects too. Seed the spaces with antiques, with artifacts from our story, and from other people’s stories. Then mix in new stuff to taste. Old & new – it’s a trick every good designer knows. Makes places feel alive (and it mimics nature – no two plants or rocks or trees are ever the same age).
And then we actually use those spaces ourselves. We break them in. We love them. We live in them. And that’s another reason why great, deeply personal hospitality doesn’t scale – nor should it in my opinion.
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So I guess the moral has layers: making real art in a space – not in spite but because of the messiness, the smudges, the controlled chaos – turns the space itself into a real work of art.
I still need to face the demons that have been holding me back from oil painting. That’s a bigger mess. But drawing again has loosened something. Writing this has too, so stay tuned.
And go create art. Messy, happy, gritty art. Smear a little paint whatever your work is. If your space is too precious to be lived in, you’re not living – you’re just curating a museum of wannabe hobbies.
Don’t do that. Take risks. Make beauty. Be a real artist. ❤️
