I finally admitted I hate painting with the window open
For years I thought I was supposed to want fresh air. The romantic studio image, non? Open window, breeze, plein air feeling. I forced myself.
This week I closed it. Put on the shitty little air conditioner I bought in secret. The light is exactly the same. The paint stayed wet longer because it wasn't drying out in a draft. I was calmer. I worked an hour past when I usually stop because I wasn't getting cold and annoyed.
All that performative suffering for nothing. I could have been comfortable this whole time.
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Now honey, I had to laugh reading this because I been through the exact same thing in my own way. For the longest time I thought I had to have the window open to "really" be working, like the breeze was part of the process, part of the blessing even. Lord knows I sat there fanning myself, dust blowing in, fabric lifting off my cutting table, thinking this was just how it's supposed to be.
Then one day my granddaughter said "Grandma, why don't you just shut that thing and turn the fan on?" and I looked at her like she'd said something scandalous. But I tried it. And mm-mm. Everything settled. My hands weren't tense from fighting the wind. The fabric laid where I put it. I worked peaceful.
We get so caught up in how a thing is "supposed" to look that we forget to ask if it's working. I'm glad you closed that window. Comfort ain't a sin. The work comes better when the one doing it feels right.
Grandma was right. It takes someone outside the romantic head to say the obvious thing, non? Like we need permission.