My Studio: Michelle Berry

A couple of weeks ago, I leapt. After years of working out of an office in my home, years of avoiding eye contact with the dog who made me feel guilty for not walking him, years of hearing the buzz of the dryer and heading downstairs to take the laundry out, years of making coffee and seeing the list of chores on the counter and heading out to do them instead of going back up to work,

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My Studio: Sarah Klassen

My studio is a room with a view. But today when I glance up from my computer, that view is blocked by a crescent of snow piled up on the outer ledge. However, I can easily picture the monochrome world beyond that barrier: the metal-grey sky, the wide white ribbon of the Red River, the black maple and willow skeletons. It’s still snowing.

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My Studio: Wayne Tefs

I spend a great deal of time on my bikes, both in Winnipeg and in Tucson, and in a way they constitute a kind of office. A mobile office where thoughts come in the way of meditation: ruminative, fragmentary, suggestive. There’s lots of time on a road ride to let the mind drift and for thoughts to waft like streams of smoke, winding from this to that as the wheels whistle along, matching the twittering of birds from the verge.

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My Studio: Leo Brent Robillard

Like most writers, I have a computer and a room to house it. It is a good room. Pale walnut floors. Slate-coloured walls. If I stand, I can see out the window across the back deck and over the gardens to the lake. It is tastefully decorated with my wife’s black and white photography. My guitars are close at hand. But I have never considered this space as my studio.

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