I had decided to move from from my studio of more than a dozen years, even before I heard that the building was tagged for sale. The old space had a certain charm, sinks down the hall along with restrooms reminiscent of those found in clothing sweatshops, which the building had once housed. It was a jolly game to find which of the four stalls was functional each day, and if the rusty water from the faucets would ever run clear. The space I was planning to move into was smaller, but had many advantages like not being on the third floor with six flights of steps to climb and a freight elevator that had a mind of its own.

I liked the southern exposure of the old studio in the winter, but summers were brutal. The windows, with their deteriorated caulk, neither opened nor closed. I did like the sound of the birds chirping in the heat pipe, but somehow the feathers managed to get stuck in my paint. Each studio had a unique ceiling heating system that sped up the drying of paint. To cover the view of the studio in the floor below, I bought non- matching carpet remnants with nondescript patterns. Over time, oil stains created a pattern of their own.

I have left “ La Vie de Boheme” behind for a new studio with all the comforts of home: heating and cooling, a sink with hot and cold running water, windows that open and close, a concrete floor and convenient parking. But I do miss the chirping birds.