Location, Location, Location

I love NY.  So much that sometimes I think that I’d like to live there.  This past Sunday, I was heading down Hudson in the West Village when I came upon this little tiny shop:

Being Sunday morning, it was locked up and dark, but I pressed my face against the window and peered inside.  Nothing fancy; a workstation with a wooden table, an easel, dirty paintbrushes, and other assorted paint materials scattered around.  A long row of books on art and animals was lined up against the wall.  Yeah, that’s kind of like how I’d want it.  Not too flashy.  Definitely not boutiquey.  Just a little working artist’s studio that happens to be open to the public.  In the West Village.  I must have stood there on the street like a little kid with her face pressed up against the window of a closed candy store.  Oh, I thought, how I would love being here.

I pulled myself away and slowly strolled on, finding a hardcover on the sale table of a little corner bookstore, written by an art critic of his experience sitting for a portrait artist.  I went in, gave them my $5, and continued roaming around the streets.  I was actually aiming for Soho to investigate some art galleries, but, with my new book in hand, ended up ducking into a little cafe to sit with it and an Americano.   A nook in the front window was  empty, except for the pillows that lined it.  Arranging the pillows, I leaned back, sipped my coffee, and opened my book.  Yes.  This.

Back home the next day, I started the day as I always do – hiking with dogs.  Breathing in the silent winter air amid the trees, I thought Wait.  This is why I live in Somerville.  A community with more artists per capita than anywhere else in the US…  except maybe NYC. But here, Rupert and I can start our days by running wild through the woods.

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