Melissa Stephens Art

I love gazing at photos of artist’s studios, studying the little details of how they store their materials, how they organize their space to maximize their creative flow, and how they express themselves within their space. Yet I rarely open my own studio for others to see the same. Despite the many visitors we’ve had to our home in Happy Valley, few have seen inside my studio space. Though I try to keep the rest of our house neat and tidy, my studio is usually a chaotic mess, with floor, wall, easel, and table space at a premium when I’m working on multiple projects. Truth be told, if I allow someone inside, I fear being judged: for having a room in complete disarray, for wasting my time on something as frivolous as art, or, even worse, for making art that isn’t very good. Since my art comes from my most vulnerable core, my studio space feels like an extension of that, the next layer out. Through art I’m attempting to express myself in ways that do not involve the comfort and reliability of words. I know the rules for how to place commas, but I don’t know that there are rules for how to paint a vase of flowers? I had an exacting English teacher in high school but no art teacher. Therefore, when someone visits my studio space, I feel awkwardly embarrassed and exposed. I must consciously quiet my fear of being “seen;” only then can I relax into the beauty and privilege of being “seen,” of allowing someone a glimpse inside, my space and myself.

My studio is my sacred space. In it I spend the most delightfully “lost” moments of my day, pilfered from my nagging list of things to do. They are the moments I record first in my gratitude journal each evening. It’s a space that feels both safe (I’ve never failed as much in my life as I have since I began making art) as well as private (Art only walks upstairs when I ask him to help me move furniture!) It’s a space where I can look around and truly “see” myself in the bits and bobs I’ve collected throughout my life that reflect who I am, what I love, and what’s currently inspiring me. Anne (in Anne of Green Gables) says, “One can dream so much better in a room where there are pretty things,” (Laura Maud Montgomery) and I couldn’t agree more! My art expanded when my space for making art expanded.

On the rare occasion when somebody does visit my studio, they seem instantly captivated by the space (perhaps dumbstruck by the mess?) After an initial pause, they begin to slowly move around the large table in the center of the room, its legs sitting on paint cans to raise it to stand-up height, my preferred way to work (thank you, Scott, for your help with that project!) Next, they begin noticing the little details. Often, I hear “oohs” and “aahs” over the this’s and that’s I’ve curated into the space, some that help me organize my materials and maximize my workflow and some that are simply treasures I’ve collected, large and small, throughout my life. There’s an antique pantry cupboard from my mom and old mailbox shelves from the Nittany Lion Inn surplus sale a few years back. There’s a BIG easel and an entire wall covered with 2 shower curtains to protect it when the paint starts to fly! There’s an old green shutter, removed from our first farmhouse and repurposed as a bulletin board of sorts. There are two old dress forms that add a bit of sculptural whimsy; a collection of shells on the windowsill, tokens gathered from walks on beaches near and far; and my first 35 mm film camera, gifted to me by my mom when I was in college. There’s also a lot of art supplies: paints stored in an old seed packet display box; pastels and paint markers organized in repurposed cigar boxes from a family friend; collage papers tucked into mailbox cubbies; and my trusty sewing machine, purchased to stitch paper, not fabric.

The few people who have seen my studio space always marvel, it seems there might be something inherently magical in a space where art is created, where new things are conjured from a few raw materials and a willing spirit. I never envisioned, when I enthusiastically began my first painting class online in the height of the pandemic, that I would eventually have my very own art studio. Yet creativity can, if allowed to expand into our life, lead a person on a grand adventure. Art has led me down the most remarkable rabbit hole! As I’ve become more comfortable making art, I’ve also become more comfortable sharing the space where I make art, where, for me, the magic happens (see photos below). I hope these images give you permission to create your own Wonderland: in a box of materials you pack away when company is coming, or in a closet, or on a table tucked into the corner of a room, or in your very own studio where, like Anne, you can dream amongst your pretty things. However, making room for your dreams doesn’t require a big easel or an old cupboard brimming with art supplies. Sure, those things are nice, but all you truly need is a spark, a desire to make. Luckily, that pixie dust is already inside you, no assembly of Ikea flat file drawers required! I hope you have or find a place where your own magic happens, a space where, when you look around, you see the beautiful mess of yourself and where you create a life you love!

This blog post, like others I’ve written, had heaps more content in the first draft than in the final, published document. Usually those extra words, tangential thoughts and stream of consciousness ramblings, get eliminated in the process of editing until I arrive at the core of what I really want to say. However, in writing this post, I excavated from deep within the cubby hole recesses of my mind, a treasure trove of memories of the spaces I’ve inhabited in my life and the roles they’ve played in shaping me and my creative voice. I’ve enjoyed the process of reminiscing and chronicling the evolution of my personal space, creative or otherwise, so much so I couldn’t bring myself to edit it out. Forgive the unwieldy length of this deep dive but, after wrangling all these memories into one place, it felt important to me to keep them together. You are free to stop reading now if you’d like, I pruned the section above the photos so that it speaks only of my current studio space in State College. Below I’ve included the backstory, the (verbose) timeline of the places and spaces, since childhood, I’ve called home. I don’t know anyone who starts their life with an art studio, it’s something one evolves into, as I did, over time. What follows is a breadcrumb trail of memories, all pivotal eras that paved my way to creating a space for my art and for myself in our current home.

I have a wonderful friend from college whose mom allowed her to pick the paint colors for her bedroom walls when she was a little girl. When she chose sunshine yellow and jungle green, her mom happily got to work, rolling and brushing paint and then helping her choose wallpaper for an accent wall that pulled the entire room together in a riotous explosion of super-saturated color! Wow, I thought, when I visited her home one summer during college, what an empowering space for a little girl to feel at home, in herself and in her choices. Her family just sold that house and yes, the walls were still sunshine yellow and jungle green! I, on the other hand, was not given that artistic freedom in my space as a little girl. Yes, I had a bedroom of my own, but my mom’s aesthetic at that time was formal farmhouse, with sedate colors and lots of antiques, all put together “just so.” My bedroom was wallpapered in a grand pastel pink and blue floral print on which I was not permitted to hang even so much as a poster (remember the one with the cat, claws exposed, dangling from the tree branch, the words “Hang In There!” emblazoned underneath? Me too! I loved that poster but was never allowed to hang it in my room.) Additionally, the configuration of our Civil War-era farmhouse north of Gettysburg did not lend itself to privacy. The 4 rooms upstairs were split down the middle, 2 on each side. That meant my sister, 6 years older than me, passed through my bedroom to get to hers. She loved nothing more than to move any objects I had neatly arranged on my desk simply to annoy me.

The first time I felt completely free to express myself in my living space (though shared with a roommate) was my college dorm room. Decorated with reckless abandon, it had a large bulletin board I covered with pictures and ticket stubs and cards, words and photos collected from my life. It also had white cinder block walls, perfect for hanging posters including my favorite, a life-sized rendition of Phillies’ 3^rd baseman, Mike Schmidt, encouraging everyone to “Drink Milk!” I was thrilled to finally have a space that, when I walked in, I saw myself, even if I had to pack it all up at the end of each year and move it.

Perhaps that’s why having a sacred space is so important to me now? I’ve tried to create a space where I see myself in each of the houses we’ve owned (3 now). In our first old farmhouse, that looked like a small table in the corner of a shared use “den” or playroom. When our children were younger, the plastic toys, large and small, outnumbered the art & craft supplies by far. But, late at night when the house was quiet, I would retreat to that space, cut paper, pair it with photos, and create scrapbook albums filled with cherished memories of our family’s life together (words and photos like my dorm room bulletin board). Our oldest son, TJ, would frequently pad down the stairs in his footed pajamas, sleep eluding him because of some care or concern on his young mind, and talk with me while I worked. It seems that little table in the corner was a therapy spot for both of us. In our next home, a slightly older and larger farmhouse across town, I was able to claim an entire room for myself – whoop-de-do! I promptly painted it a bold pink, even the ceiling! I remember telling a dear friend, soon after the paint dried, “I feel like I’m sitting inside a huge cone of cotton candy!” We howled laughing! Perhaps I’d finally given voice to the 10-year-old little girl inside me who so desperately wanted permission to express her colorful self? It was a happy place for me! I remember the first time our middle son, Matt, strolled into my cotton candy-colored room. He gazed at those pink walls, placed his hands on his tiny little hips in a pose of pure exasperation and said, “Mom, we’re (meaning he and his 2 brothers) never coming in here!” I believe my response was, “EXACTLY!” A lot of memory keeping happened in that space, more words and photos paired and preserved. Yet I was itching for more, drawn toward artsier projects that involved colorful paint, bold brushstrokes, and wild splatters. Though I tried valiantly, I couldn’t find enough space in that room for both scrapbooking and painting. In hindsight I see that, while our boys were growing out of their rooms, I was also growing out of mine. Soon they left their bedrooms behind for college dorm rooms and apartments of their own. During those years of transition, however, their rooms remained shrines to their youth, chock full of posters, trophies, Harry Potter books, Star Wars Lego masterpieces, shell collections of their own, and oodles of other ephemera from their childhoods. I could not bring myself to pack their lives away into boxes so that my own life could expand. Until we decided to move. Then all of our lives were packed into boxes and, in our new home, we found ourselves with 3 spare bedrooms that “belonged” to no one. Into them I could unpack only what we (my husband and I) wanted to create the living spaces we desired in this next phase of our lives. I chose the largest spare bedroom, on the second floor, with a huge closet for storage and a large double window that generously provides the loveliest natural light. This time I painted the walls and trim white (I left the cotton candy pink behind for the 3 little girls who were moving into our old house!), then set about decorating this space I refer to as my “Room of Requirement,” as it did for Harry Potter, it appeared for me at a time when I was in great need! My scrapbooking supplies remain packed away in boxes in a spare closet, accessible but no longer cluttering my workspace; and my art supplies have taken center stage. Though I’ve described my studio above in words and photos, I still find it difficult to communicate what this space truly means to me. I do know, after reflecting on my journey to get here, I’m more grateful for it than I’ve ever been. Who knew that little girl whose bedroom walls were covered in formal, floral wallpaper would, as she approaches 60, still be in the process of becoming and expressing herself?