Tiny houses are cute. OK. They are so artistic. Can be. Just imagine living in one. Doing that, and dealing with the now obvious balancing act of 'which art where'.
Pardon me as I look around my room. Sitting in my writing recliner, I can see about half of my living space. The bedroom, bathroom, and laundry (yes, my house has a washer/dryer) are all behind me. In front of me are my cooking, eating, working, and relaxing spaces. Visual inventories have become much easier, including my art.
I have finally accepted the title of artist, mostly because of my photography. Most of that is from Twelve Month nature studies. I go to a place a few times each month for a year, and produce a photo essay of that bit of nature's life. (Photos and books available online! - I say with a bit of a chuckle. Me? An artist? Okay, I guess.)
My friends are also artists. I guess that's a bit natural, especially because we all live on the American West Coast (which is really the Pacific's East Coast.)
My only photos in the house are nature views printed on translucent satins. They hang in front of windows, partly for the view, partly to block the view, and partly to show off the play of light as it passes through that translucence. Sparkly water definitely looks more sparkly than a paper print that relies on reflected light.
Houses are running out of room for art.
I printed my photos on paper, too, but years ago I realized that houses were getting bigger windows which meant smaller walls. Now in my tiny house, they all hang on glass. Very cool, in my opinion.
Over my shoulder is a hard-carved bird sculpture (commissioned as a gift and much appreciated). Behind me are some drawings that included me as a subject. There's a ceramic sculpted dragon, a bent-metal stylized bicycle, and some exquisitely personal hand-stitched quilting in the bedroom. Of course, there's more.
But there can't be much more. This is a tiny house. The art didn't shrink.
A few weeks ago I bought an 11-inch ceramic tile of people dancing. (I dance, too.) I had to think about where to put it before I bought it. It sits on the top of the refrigerator, still wrapped in bubble-wrap, just below where it is going to go. Eventually.
There's a spot left on a shelf above the fridge, over the fridge magnets that spell 'Dance'. I need a ladder. I have a ladder. But I have to find the time to maneuver the ladder into the house, figure out how to site it because it gives me height (but sadly maybe not the reach), install some hanging hardware, mount the art, and enjoy it - and know it will rarely get dusted.
I've known people who love art so much that they've built extra wings (note the plural) onto their house because they had more art than a standard house could hold. Impressive.
I make do with what I've got.
Pardon the pause as I reflect on the functional art I've bought, like mugs and soap dishes. I am looking for a local ceramicist so I can commission some new dinnerware.
The photos of this house when the house was for sale were like the photos of many tiny houses that are on display on web sites and magazines. Perfect. Flip through this blog and there's usually art in the background. The art exists beside that new washer/dryer, or the fancy Cuisinart toaster oven, otherwise boring bed.
In a tiny house, there's less room for art, but art becomes more of the picture. There's an art to finding room for the art.
I pause again as I think about the art of my artist friends and am somewhat saddened that I can't buy more. Sorry, folks. There ain't more room.
Living in a tiny house requires intentional living. Stuff is not bought on a whim, as much. That also means art is harder to forget. It's right there. I see it everyday. I may not get around to dusting the tops of shelves, but I can still see the art.
Especially for me, the art makes this space more personal. Sure, I've configured the space into My Cockpit Decor, but the one becomes the backbone for the other. I like that. Now, if I could only find some more space for that painting...