One of the things that I love about lane swimming is that it’s both solitary and communal. I am alone in a giant salty bathtub of friends and strangers. An art collective provides a similar experience. A house full of artists who work in solitude and occasionally convene on landings and in stairwells to talk about paint brush bristles and other serious matters. There’s a trust and respect that forms among people who share a creative space. My studio, like several others in the building, is exposed for all to see. There’s vulnerability in that. A painting that’s losing its way. An unfinished drawing. A vessel with cracks through the middle. We’re all exposing battle scars. Artists with private studios often leave their doors open; an invitation to talk, to exchange ideas. To feel connected. Anytime I’m invited into another artist’s space I know it’s a privilege, a glimpse into their inner world; grosgrain ribbon, rubber tubing, ink, glue, an old teapot with half a spout. Amy keeps tulips weeks after they’ve died, beauty in decay, exquisite and fragile like a nonagenarian grande dame. Melissa’s attic studio is an homage to mother artist, her textile based installations scattered among soft toys and playmats. Atleigh’s studio is as humble, warm and considered as her still lives. We are a satellite encased in a downtown Victorian house with an allotment and mismatched linoleum floors. Close to home, and far enough from reality. Everyone’s here to make art. Clay, fabric, polyethylene. Some of us come early in the morning. Others late at night. Alone with company. Silent if not for the occasional sneeze or rustling of paper.