I grew up a hundred yards from a pottery studio. It was part of my upbringing, this place across the parking lot where things were made, where people entered clean and came out wet and smeared with clay. Things were invented and invigorated, a slumping pile of mud became my cereal bowl, my cereal bowl had finger marks, had a face staring back at me above a belly full of cheerios.  I was surrounded by things that were unique, that were fashioned by the same hands that prepared my school lunches and tossed Frisbees across the overgrown bahia fields.

So the word “Studio” has always been a physical place for me, with real walls, a roof, and a scrubbable floor. And  wherever I’ve lived I’ve found one, or if I haven’t found one there was always a corner of my apartment where the domestic rules didn’t apply, where some project was germinating. Often times this “corner” grew like a black and white B movie blob, and there were bits of wire and basswood spread across the living room floor. No doubt the detritus of past projects still lurk beneath my couch.

There are a number of studios I frequent now. The one I grew up in is still there, and I work in one at Hall Architects, and I have my desk at home (which is currently piled with 2b pencils, India ink, and linoleum shavings.) And now I have this, the Darling Design Studio, which has no roof or scrubbable floor, but does have something like a wall to throw things against, to see if they stick.

So that’s what this “studio” is for the time being, a place for past projects to sit back with two heels on the table and for current projects to take a peek into the world. Enjoy.