Ten Books Every Creative Person Should Read
A large room, with good light. Walls: primer white, pocked with holes and scraps of masking tape. Floor: level, probably concrete, maybe plywood, either way, scuffed and stained with ink, paint, grease, dead gobs of plaster, resin, hot glue. Of the furniture, there are probably shelves, a large table, a stool with a back, maybe a flat file, all most likely born from McMaster-Carr, the deliriously proportioned supply company that God used to build the world.
Beyond that, so much more is possible. Imagine a room where 20 angled drafting tables were set in a double-sided 50-yard line like a wooden rooftop, their joints pinned every few feet by cans of brushes and pens, each precisely different. Picture slabs of marble piled to the ceiling, styrofoam beads floating past my feet in a ghostly breeze, house paint cracked next to jars of expensive imported pigment, oil slopping down a
