Rust and Reverie: The Studio’s Silent Stories
“Old Doors & Forgotten Layers” — Pen & Ink, © Michael Warth, 2025.
There’s a story behind every studio. Sometimes, it starts with a doorknob.
I’m drawing one tonight. Nothing grand—just an old doorknob, rusted, with layers of paint from decades gone by. The attic lamp casts a marmalade glow on one side. The porch light outside and downstairs brushes the other. It’s not a masterpiece—but it’s enough. Because sometimes, the place you’re in is the message.
I’ve made art in a lot of spaces over the years. Some were too small. Some were too cold. Most weren’t really studios at all in the sense most people think—they were simply a place to put an easel in the house.
When I was a kid in the 1970s, my bedroom doubled as the family library. Shelves packed with books. A twin bed. A little desk. My dad gave me a typewriter, and because he worked at the local paper company, I always had stacks of paper. That was my first studio. I wrote. I drew. I made things. And I brought them to my dad, who looked them over, gave me pointers, and handed me art books he either owned—or went out and found just for me.
Later, in high school, I moved my makeshift art studio into the basement at my parent’s house. It was like my own little apartment. Drafting table, old dining table, couch, drums in the corner. I spent hours down there. I drew from books, magazines, my own photos—whatever sparked something. It was messy and it was mine.
When I got married, my wife and I moved into a tiny double-wide. Nine hundred square feet. No room for a studio, really—just a kitchen table. But even there, I kept going. I sketched. I started taking commissions. That was the turning point when I realized I could actually do something with this. I mean, the spark was there much earlier in life but now, as an adult, married, with children, I finally felt like I could contribute to the household with my art.
The next house had a basement, and I turned it into a studio—even though it was cold, dim, and a little claustrophobic. Still, that’s where I built the work I’m known for today. That’s where I painted some of the first serious pieces. The work didn’t care that the ceilings were low. It just needed me to show up.
And now I’m here—living about 10 miles out of town, in a house where the small spare bedroom is my main studio. And when I need a change of pace, I come up here to the attic. It’s not climate-controlled, but it’s mine. It’s quiet. It holds the light just right. And tonight, it holds this doorknob drawing.
Each of these spaces taught me something. Not about tools or technique—but about presence. About showing up even when the room isn’t perfect. About honoring the impulse to create no matter how small the space feels.
Studios aren’t defined by square footage. They’re defined by intent. By attention. A bedroom. A basement. A kitchen table. A cold attic. They all hold the same possibility if you’re willing to see it.
Wherever I sit down, wherever I work, there’s an opportunity to make art.
Even a doorknob can open the way forward, if you’re paying attention.
