My studio is a room that can lead to any other room. I discover these rooms through the use of makeshift portals fashioned from whitewashed canvas stretched over wooden frames. I never happen to meet the people who live in these rooms, but I’ve nevertheless taken the liberty of rummaging through their belongings, drinking their beer, and staring out their windows. They mostly seem like loners whose misguided obsessions are enabled by their confinement. They collect things, build things, futz around as if what they’re doing really matters. It’s easy to linger in these places for long stretches of time without knowing it. I’ve stepped into the portal when the trees were blooming and returned home to find them bare, whole months of my life down the drain. Sometimes I wonder whether the places I visit are even real. Other times they’re so real, stepping back into my life seems like the thing I dreamt up.