Our intern, Rebecca Horovitz, roamed the empty studios in the time between the regular school year and our summer workshops. It offered a chance for some intriguing photos - and a touch of poetry:
The halls of Studio Incamminati are devoid of students. The light is white and lonely.
Despite being surrounded by people outside, the building is quiet, not solemn, but respectful of the noise and rebellious in it's lack of it. Even looking out over the city I feel above the tallest buildings.
Through into the studio the cold air differs from the outside squelching heat, preserving paint, canvas, and memories.
Moments before I felt I was the tallest being around, now looking at the easels I feel as an ant, in awe of their monolithic company and age. How many artists have they helped hold up with their wooden arms?
As I walk through ghosts look at me through their paintings. I look at each one and see the effort and love put into them. These pictures are not lonely without the students: They have each other, the easels, the paints, the smell of old brushes and new brush cleaner.
As I walk through the halls I see art everywhere, and not just in the paintings.
After watching the tigress and it's quarry I begin to head out, but I feel eyes staring at me.
Leaving whence I entered the monoliths line up and wish me goodbye, their creaking telling me they anticipating the new paint that will be splashed across them as they hold their cloth idols.
Studio Incamminati is waking up