I love NY. So much that sometimes I think that I’d like to live there. This past Sunday, I was heading down Hudson in the West Village when I came upon this little tiny shop:
Being Sunday morning, it was locked up and dark, but I pressed my face against the window and peered inside. Nothing fancy; a workstation with a wooden table, an easel, dirty paintbrushes, and other assorted paint materials scattered around. A long row of books on art and animals was lined up against the wall. Yeah, that’s kind of like how I’d want it. Not too flashy. Definitely not boutiquey. Just a little working artist’s studio that happens to be open to the public. In the West Village. I must have stood there on the street like a little kid with her face pressed up against the window of a closed candy store. Oh, I thought, how I would love being here.
I pulled myself away and slowly strolled on, finding a hardcover on the sale table of a little corner bookstore, written by an art critic of his experience sitting for a portrait artist. I went in, gave them my $5, and continued roaming around the streets. I was actually aiming for Soho to investigate some art galleries, but, with my new book in hand, ended up ducking into a little cafe to sit with it and an Americano. A nook in the front window was empty, except for the pillows that lined it. Arranging the pillows, I leaned back, sipped my coffee, and opened my book. Yes. This.
Back home the next day, I started the day as I always do – hiking with dogs. Breathing in the silent winter air amid the trees, I thought Wait. This is why I live in Somerville. A community with more artists per capita than anywhere else in the US… except maybe NYC. But here, Rupert and I can start our days by running wild through the woods.