Being in an artist’s studio is like magic for me. It makes me feel as though I should tip-toe and hold my breath for fear of disrupting that invisible and elusive creative force we coax and crave. You can really sense its presence in spaces like this – in the form of splattered paint on the floor, muddy buckets of water, and globby tubes of paint. You can see it in rough sketches and handwritten words found on scraps of paper scattered across a desk or taped haphazardly to the wall. When I visited briefly with Tom Swanston in his studio that day, I left with a handful of odd images like this. Not one of them contained a single finished work by Tom, nor his artist wife Gail Foster and I must tell you that the paintings were fabulous. But I keep coming back to this one… and the tenderness of his hands clasping his wife’s canvas.
Let’s see the work of hands today. Or share a sacred space.
