Then Greg moved in. He’s a classical composer, so he’s the real artist in the family. We have at least one keyboard instrument in every room of the house (except the bathroom… for now), plus the grand piano and the organ in the living room, and his computer and another piano in the office.

I guess if I had to identity a dedicated space for art in this house, it would be the whole house. This is not as delightfully funky in practice as it sounds in theory, but I’m keeping it.

If the breeze stirs just right, I can hear the distant whinny of horses and little goats with little goaty sounds. Several roosters also reside nearby and have no clue how to tell time. Like sonorous grandfather clocks, the roosters seem to yodel every hour on the hour. It’s perfect. So feng shui that!

My office is fairly civilized in an unorganized way. The walls are painted a deep rose, the ceiling a barely discernible light pink. It was a nursery for the previous owner’s infant daughter. I like the idea that it was once a nursery – a place of freshness, newness, promise, and lots of love scented with soft talc. My desk is a refractory table I refinished while my very own babies were napping thirty years ago. I found it in central Missouri in a ramshackle barn with an assortment of farm tools on its top, which ultimately gave the surface character, and a unique patina. The farmer had said, “That old thing, why you can have it for $25. Yup. Yup. Yup.” Barter was not yet in my vocabulary. I spent more on sandpaper. My desk is always in disarray, no matter how hard I try. It’s fairly utilitarian because I manage some of my husband’s business. To assuage his concerns, I organize on a sort of quarterly basis. But, on a moment’s notice, I can always locate what he needs, albeit I tear through the room like a threshing machine. He’s lucky I have a separate art studio.

Our house is graced by lots and lots of art. I collect. Everyday I spend some time with my discoveries and am utterly charmed. Consequently, my office has some of the collection – my blacks and whites – photos or pen and inks.

Several years ago I had a hip replacement. I delayed surgery as long as I could and used a cane. Shoot, if I had to use a cane, I was gonna have fun. I was just a kid at fifty-two, so I made my own. I eventually created about forty different designs. Many of my prototypes hang on the rod that used to have frilly nursery-type curtains. Let me give you an idea about my canes: one is covered with teeny tiny rubbery dogs. I called it ‘Life’s a Bitch.’ God, I had fun with those canes. (Barbara has been in my house so she knows it’s a wee bit eccentric and a living scrapbook.)

The floor of my office is always always in need of an extreme makeover. Works in progress are stacked, folders with research are stacked, books for research or pleasure are very stacked. Organized chaos.

On the wall behind me is a portrait painting of my mother. I can remember when she posed. I was six years old. The artist lived in an impossibly romantic bluff top house on the Long Island Sound. I can remember trying to navigate the bluff and falling. A nasty gash on my leg interrupted the posing session. The artist, Mary Rose Armstrong, bandaged my wound. She was so gentle. She smelled of scents that were new to me – paints and turpentine and mystery.

A memory returned today of life with mother. She redefined eccentricity. Yeah, yeah you all are groaning. Well, when I was around ten she asked if I wanted another pet. What kid doesn’t want another pet? I asked for chickens. She never once blinked, though no one in a radius of forty miles or more had chickens. I called them Chick-Chick and Cluck-Cluck. And I wonder why my writing career has stalled.

My mom’s house was the sort of place you could eat off the floor. I mean really eat food off the floor. In lieu of housekeeping, she had too much fun with her garden, or swilling martinis around the baby grand with her summer stock theatre friends. Her cigarette was propped in a skinny 12” ebony holder that she flailed like a baton as the group belted out Gershwin tunes. I adored her - still do. Her home was so real and wonderfully odd and alive. Years later I learned she was a high-functioning schizophrenic. But life was pretty much good crazy.

Barbara, as much as I like my office, I think yours sounds even niftier. Thanks for sharing and stirring a deluge of memories for me – especially on this Mother’s Day.

Your workspace sounds pretty nice.
I try so hard to keep my workspace uncluttered, but things seem to accumulate there. And then I move them and start over with a clean space.