Studio Space, Expectation, and Starting Again
I don’t seek out drama, but it has a way of finding me—especially when I’m craving stability. After years of moving between countries, my return to Cyprus felt like a chance to finally settle into a dedicated studio space. Somewhere quiet, grounded. A place to work slowly and without disruption.
My husband and I searched the area of Argaka until we found it: Anaksagoras Villa, an old Cypriot stone house with views of the sea and the Akamas reserve. Hills behind it, barely any neighbours, a sense of openness. It felt right. I imagined long, uninterrupted days in the studio. But things don’t always unfold the way we imagine.
When I opened the studio door, I found a collection of moldy books, old clothes, fishing gear—and, unexpectedly, a handgun. The owners had agreed to clear it out, but were vague about when. I hadn’t insisted on a fixed date in the contract, so the mess remained. I began cleaning because it felt like the only path forward. Eventually I moved everything into a cupboard in the living room and partitioned part of my husband’s office for storage.
Weeks later, the owners visited. I hoped this meant they were finally ready to clear the space. Instead, the landlady casually brushed off a section of a cluttered desk and told me it would be “sufficient enough” to work from. It wasn’t. But by that point, the energy to fight for something better had worn thin.
Then came the rest: a scorpion near my foot while unpacking, cockroaches scuttering from beneath, and a rainstorm that left puddles on the studio floor. Later, when we installed an air-conditioning unit, it pulled in the smell of the septic system through hidden cracks. I sealed each one myself, slowly, until the scent was bareable.
After another rainfall once summer had ended, a new leak appeared. I stood there mopping the floor, and something gave way. I destroyed a few pieces. At the moment, it felt necessary—an act of release in a space that no longer held me. Then I stopped working. Days blurred into weeks, then months. I told myself I was resting, but I wasn’t—I was stuck. Not making work felt hollow. But trying to make work in that space felt worse.
Eventually, we decided to leave. I realized I needed to work outdoors anyway—more and more, I’ve come to value that. Stillness, fresh air, open light as apposed to closed spaces.. The whole experience reminded me how much the right space matters. Not just structurally, but emotionally. You can’t make honest work in a place that doesn’t support you.
I’ve learned to ask for more clarity in agreements. To be more specific, more direct. And more protective of the energy it takes to do this kind of work.
I’m still regaining my footing, but I’m clearer now. About what I need, and what I won’t carry again.
