the practical magic of the home studio
The home studio in my last apartment in Cincinnati (2021-2024).
I just completed my annual rewatch of the witchy classic, Practical Magic (1998) with my best friend, although this year looked slightly different. With a three-hour time difference separating us, a little more coordination was required to pull this off, but if you’ve never long-distance watched a movie with your bestie while you drink the same drink (Prosecco) and text incessantly throughout, you’re really missing out.
The beauty of this movie is its emphasis on sisterhood. Yes, there is a lovely romantic storyline weaving in and out of the narrative, but what my best friend and I focus on is the inseparable bond between sisters Sally and Gillian. And, of course, the house.
If you’ve never seen Practical Magic, it’s worth it for the visual aesthetics alone - the clothing, hairstyles, and quaintness of the unnamed New England island town are all iconic in their own right. But it’s the multistoried white Victorian house that three generations of sisters inhabit that really makes the movie what it is. As my bestie and I swoon over the lived-in feel of this house filled with women’s voices, it’s the conservatory that stands out the most. With windows going up to the ceiling, shelves filled with plants, and numerous glass containers at the ready, it is at once inviting and mystical. Located directly off the kitchen and used in many scenes throughout the film, this room is a crucial character in the story. It provides the tangible materials as well as the physical and mental space needed to perform their spells (however innocent or rightfully malevolent they may be).
Whenever I watch this movie, I am always captivated by this space because of how it seems to both inspire the women and serve a practical function as well (in this case, magic). Its proximity to the rest of their living quarters only intertwines it further into their daily lives. The conservatory is their home studio.
Over the years, I have mostly had my studio space located in my home, with only a few temporary exceptions. Following my recent move (and concurrent downsizing), my studio went from a separate spacious room with two big windows to the corner of my bedroom coming in at a not-so-spacious 16 square feet. However, even if I did have the funds to rent a studio space here in San Francisco (which I definitely do not), I would still prefer this set up over the alternative. It might be because so much of my work ties directly to the idea of home and domesticity, but it feels odd and a little forced to have my studio located anywhere but my home. Convenience is an obvious reason as to why this makes sense for me. But it’s less about the ability to plop myself at my desk at any moment and pick up a paintbrush (I’ve never been one for spontaneity and unsurprisingly, I schedule my studio time like I would a hair appointment) and more about my work’s constant presence in my life. Everytime I glance over in that direction, I feel motivated and my mind spins on as I consider new compositions, deeper meanings, and distant connections to other things I’ve made, seen, read, or thought about.
There is a distinct sense of enchantment within the home studio. It is both a part of my daily life and removed from it. While I sometimes reply to emails or jot down notes in my planner while seated at my studio table, it transforms into the location of something special as I call upon the transient nature of creativity. Often the spell works, occasionally, it does not. Regardless, the site itself retains its sacred essence. It’s almost as if my thoughts are swirling around this corner, like plants lining the shelves in the witchy conservatory, waiting for me to pluck one petal at a time and conjure up something new.
