I was told I had to move out of my studio. The news was unexpected and at first, it caused me to feel panicked, jittery, and depressed. For the first time in my life, I was having to leave somewhere before I was ready to go.
It's taken me a year to settle in. I've accumulated more material things during my stay here than at any other time in my life – although friends would still call me minimalist. I sleep on a daybed that doubles as a couch. My desk and drawing table is improvised: one of the custom-made wooden frames I use for my larger works atop a pair of adjustable aluminium carpenter's trestles. I own a coffee table, books and shelves, five-by-one-metre wall of stackable clear plastic drawers for files, a number of favourite art works (not mine), and art materials - frames, paint, canvas, and boxes of things I have been collecting for future works.Despite my reluctance to relocate, I found a new space. It might even be a better space. A small, unelaborate, cliff-top cottage, it has great natural light and there are enough rooms for work and storag. There's even a new shed in which I can finish the last of my enamel works. One other thing I love about my new studio: it has a killer view. Through every window along the back of the house, I look out to the Tasman Sea across a crescent moon of beach and an ever-present pod of sleek, black wet-suited surfers. I have always been drawn to the ocean. It soothes me, makes me feel small: gazing at it, any troubles I have become insignificant. I'll still be travelling a lot, but it will be good to know that I have a place like this to come back to. Who knows? I might even begin to call it 'home'.