PEACE, AND TIME, AND A SPECIAL PLACE TO
WRITE. NICE WORK IF YOU CAN GET IT.
April 1988
Picture an idyllic landscape. Acres of rolling countryside. Mountains in the distance. A vast expanse of lawn. Towering specimen trees. Holstein heifers grazing placidly in a field.
Sketch in a residence hall. A large living room. A television library. A spacious library, its floor-to-ceiling shelves overflowing with books. Add a kitchen, a communal dining room. Fit in a couple dozen spartan but serviceable bedrooms.
And, perhaps a quarter-mile away at the top of a rise, put in a sprawling complex of studios. A dozen or so rooms for writers. Almost as many spaces for visual artists, larger because they need more space, and with the floor bare because they’d just drip paint on the carpet otherwise. Tuck in three studios for composers, equipped with pianos and soundproofed for the protection of everyone else.
Then fill the place with artists. Feed them three times a day. Change their bed linen once a week. And leave them alone.
What you have is an artists’ colony.
Does it sound like heaven?
It can be just that. Colonies—and 15 or 20 of them are scattered around the country—exist to provide the creative artist with an ideal environment for his work. During a residency, which may range from a week or two to several months, all his needs are taken care of and he is blissfully removed from the sort of mundane matters that break one’s concentration in the outside world. When he’s in his studio, no phones ring and no one knocks at his door. Any real-world turmoil—a stack of unpaid bills, a turbulent relationship, a squalling infant—remains light-years away in the real world.
In addition to comfort and isolation, a colony provides one with the company of other people similarly committed to creative pursuits. There’s conversation at breakfast and dinner, of course, and often in the evening a resident will present some of his work. Poets and fiction writers give readings. Artists show slides of their work, or invite their fellows to an open studio showing of what they’ve produced during their residency. Composers play tapes, or perform at the piano in the lounge.
And, of course, one is surrounded by the evidence of the accomplishment of past and present fellows; there’s a library of books by people who have worked at the colony, and the walls throughout the studio barn and residence hall are hung with prints and paintings produced by fellows.
How much one participates in this cultural interchange is a wholly individual matter. Some fellows attend every reading and slide show and open studio, hold conversations far into the night, and find the company of fellow artists the colony’s most valuable aspect. Others go back to their studios after dinner for more work. Indeed, it’s possible to isolate oneself completely at a colony; there’s frequently a bed in the studio for naps, and it’s not unheard of for an artist facing deadline pressure to move in altogether, emerging only for quick, silent visits to the dining room.
Either mode of behavior, or anything in between, is considered acceptable. Work is a colony’s whole reason for being, and it is axiomatic that it takes precedence over other activities. I wont take it amiss if you pass up my poetry reading; you in turn won’t consider me a barbarian if I leave the table while you’re in the middle of a sentence.
Before we go any further, I should emphasize that I am by no means an expert on the subject of artists’ colonies. My experience has been limited to two month-long fellowships at a single colony. The first of these, in June of ’87, was enormously successful as far as I was concerned; in February’s column I described my experience, in the course of which I wrote a full-length novel, Random Walk. It was abundantly clear to me at the time that the atmosphere of the colony greatly facilitated the writing of the novel, and that the shared energy of my fellow artists helped me bring all my own energy to bear upon the project. Now, six months later, I am again in residence at the colony, and things could hardly be more different. I booked my stay here without a specific book in mind, trusting that I would be ready to write something by the time I got here. Nothing came to mind. On the second or third day here I started a short story and wrote half of it. The next day I reread what I’d done and decided that, if I were reading this particular story, I would probably quit about now; I couldn’t see any reason why I as a writer should go further than I’d be prepared to go as a reader, and I laid the story aside.
I moped for a few days, then started a novel about Bernie Rhodenbarr, the burglar I’ve written five mystery novels about. After three days I had 33 perfectly acceptable pages. At the end of the week I still had those 33 pages, and I had too the realization that those five novels hold as much as I have to say about Bernie Rhodenbarr, and that while there may be nothing wrong with my 33 pages, neither is there any real reason to write page 34.
If June was heaven, the past couple weeks have been a reasonable facsimile of its opposite. This is a wonderful place to work; conversely, it’s a perfectly terrible place not to work, and any day now I may quit punishing myself and cut my stay short. Meanwhile, perhaps I can improve the shining hour by answering a few questions about colonies:
How do you get to go to one? By applying. Different colonies have different application procedures, but all of them are designed to ensure that the artists in residence have some professional legitimacy. If you have not accomplished anything yet in the world of letters, you would probably have a tough time getting accepted.
This does not mean you have to be a self-supporting professional writer with a long list of publications and honors. You probably ought to have published something, and you probably will be asked to submit samples of your work, published or unpublished, along with letters of recommendation from someone with some standing in the field who can testify to your talent and accomplishment.
While most colonies operate year-round, they are harder to get into in the summer months when the demand for space is heaviest. If you can come off-season, and if you’re generally flexible in terms of time, you stand a better chance of acceptance.
How much does it cost? That depends. Some colonies don’t charge anything, and all of them are generally quite reasonable. The one where I’m staying asks fellows to pay $15 a day, more if they’re able. However, some artists are accepted who cannot pay the basic $15 charge. Since this includes accommodations and meals, it strikes me as a pretty decent deal.
I should mention that a few colonies charge a considerable amount for room and board and operate to make a profit. They very definitely welcome amateurs and neophytes, and some of them provide some sort of instruction, even a structure of classes and workshops. While such operations may be just what you’re looking for—and certainly easier to get into than a not-for-profit colony—they’re quite different in atmosphere and caliber of resident.
Who gets the most out of a colony? On the basis of my two visits, I’d say the person with a clear idea of what he’s going to write has a distinct advantage. On the other hand, going to a colony with a project in mind is no guarantee of success, nor is the lack of a project a certain impediment. Several people have told me that they’ve frequently gone to colonies with no advance agenda, drawn inspiration on the spot, and had productive residencies.
Colonies can be a godsend for somebody up against a deadline. The opportunity for truly concentrated work is unparalleled. It’s not uncommon for a writer to complete a book or a screenplay in a month, or for a painter to complete a series of paintings for an upcoming show.
For those of us who don’t ordinarily come into contact with other artists, a colony can be deeply energizing. A painter I met here first attended a colony four years ago. At the time she was living in a small city that was by no means a beehive of cultural activity, and the stimulation of the company of her fellows was heady indeed.
“I couldn’t get enough of it,” she told me. “I went to every open studio, I hung on every word at every poetry reading, I lapped it all up. And when my month was up I realized I didn’t want to go on living in the middle of nowhere anymore. I went home long enough to pack and made a beeline for New York and I’ve been there ever since.
“Now when I come here it’s different. I don’t come for stimulation anymore. I get enough of that at home. I come here for a rest, and I pass up most of the readings and don’t always get to the open studios, either. What you get from a place like this depends on what it is you’re looking for.”
A colony is probably not ideal for the sort of writer who prefers to write a page or two a day and complete a piece of work over an extended period of time. Still, writers who normally work slowly often find themselves putting in more time and getting more accomplished in the hothouse environment of a colony.
You’ve had two very different experiences at the colony. Would you go back for a third? Absolutely. The only regret I have about colonies is that I didn’t find out about them 20 years ago. They suit me perfectly, and I expect I’ll do the bulk of my writing in them in years to come.
Assuming I ever write anything again, that is.