A Safe Space

I spent six weeks this summer at an arts residency. During the dinner before you leave, you stand and say a few words of farewell to the group. I chose to speak about an aspect of the residency experience that struck me most profoundly this time around.

There is a cardinal rule at residencies. No one is allowed to knock on anyone else’s studio door without an invitation to do so, ever, for any reason except dire emergency. I had experienced the constraint before, but this summer I grew into the profound solace this rule afforded. Perhaps it was because I had a space that resembled a small house, complete with an upstairs and a downstairs, so I could embody the notion that my space was where I really lived. Perhaps it was because I was deliberately slow and measured in how I moved around and did tasks. I don’t know…but I do know that over the course of the weeks I felt increasingly safe in my studio, knowing no one was going to barge in even for the most lovely of reasons. That sense of safety was a portal that opened on a panorama of the thousands of instances of intrusion I have experienced—we all do. I focused on relaxing into the knowledge that that wasn’t going to happen. Not even a beloved pet was going to wander in and set its paws against my leg, seeking my attention. I was truly alone. It felt so…natural.

Me in front of Heyward studio, MacDowell summer 2025, taken by Grace Ann Li

We are born as separate bodies and we die with our shells, but we are never really encouraged to revel in that. Just the opposite; we learn to fear that fact, and see it as prime evidence of our fallen natures. There is a lot of emphasis on pushing past our separateness to recognizing our connection, that we are all one, notions to which I subscribe. What about taking comfort in our separateness? And deeply embracing the fact that we stand alone? I don’t think it has ever been easy to have this experience. People have gone to the desert for forty days and forty nights, locked themselves into anchorholds, climbed mountains, moved to remote lands, in search of not only solitude but this state of being able to count on no disturbances and in that uninterrupted state, experiencing our likeness to stars. There is within that safety net a realization of the extraordinary circumstance of our separateness and aloneness in the universe. We leave our mother’s bodies and thought the parting is painful and fraught, we arrive as complete beings, complete with minds we can quiet into calm seas. It is a wonder we don’t cherish this more.

I do believe that when we find ourselves alone and uninterrupted, and let that feeling settle to our core, we find that we love ourselves deeply. We are love.

I was separated from the living, yet aware of the spirits. In the work room of the space the wooden plaques called tombstones lined the walls, signed with the names of artists who’d lived and worked in those same rooms. I was aware of their spirits and energy being all around me; their concentration and imagination lingered after they’d gone. When I went upstairs at night into my old-fashioned bedroom, all my dead were there, waiting for me. I felt their patience, their infinite ability to wait for their turn with my attention, and it mirrored my own sense that I’d waited a lifetime to feel naturally alone with myself. I have always sought being alone, but that is different. Adversarial. This aloneness was a gift of having my space protected by an entire culture that respected and appreciated it too—all my fellow residents had their own do not knock doors. I did not feel intruded upon by the spirits that existed beyond the framework of such a rule. They were friendly ghosts.

I sorted through a lot of memories of having been intruded upon, violated, interrupted. Realizing the extent of what had been done to me, I made some choices about not doing the same to myself, and cut back on sources of intrusion, from social media to the news to dwelling on regrets. I had the protection of the no knock rule, and expanded it to protecting myself from myself, in thought and deed. How could I sit within the boundary of my born body without the stress of aloneness becoming a loneliness that sought distraction? Many practices across time have offered means to a contented experience of presence. They are all portals. For me, the no knock rule was a revelation, and I am moving forward with what it taught me, lifelong learner that I am. Just for today, how can I not invite intrusion into my mind? At least that.

I will end by saying that places like MacDowell not only support artists and art, but provide spaces for a lot of personal development to happen alongside the art making. Many of my cohort this summer came in states of sorrow for one reason or another and found healing during their residencies. This is a synergistic effect of people being trusted and treated like adults while being cared for in a way that would constitute an ideal childhood. We cannot be tempted to create false oppositions and compare the privilege of MacDowell and comparable places to the dire situations many people live in now and decide that arts residencies and foundations and fellowships are superfluous. That lens is too narrow and materialistic. I always feel at a residency that energy is gathered for the betterment of the world, not just the fellows. The art making in such peace is like the prayers of cloistered nuns, concentration on good that moves way beyond the literal walls of the place. It is food for the soul, which matters, too.

And I finished a novel. More on that soon.