My studio is a room that can lead to any other room. I enter the other rooms through special portals I’ve fashioned by stretching canvas over wooden frames. I never know what kind of room I’ll end up in and I never happen to meet the people who live there, but I nevertheless take the liberty of rummaging through their belongings, drinking their beer, and staring out their windows.

The people almost always seem like loners whose confinement serves only to enable their obsessions. I can tell they collect things, build things, and futz around as if what they’re doing really matters.

It’s easy for me to linger in these rooms for long stretches of time without realizing it. I’ve stepped into my special portals when the trees outside my own window were blooming and stepped back out only to find them bare--whole seasons of my life down the drain. Sometimes I wonder whether the rooms I visit are real. Other times they’re so real, my life feels like the thing I dreamt up.