Jean Eng’s Writing Space
My subsidized one-bedroom unit isn’t the smallest I’ve known. Limitations still occur though, in square footage, closets, and garbage chute beside my entrance. Our co-op community endures symphony in jackhammer major during construction summer and the reek of jet fuel from Billy Bishop Airport is enough to pinch your nostrils. But it’s the best arrangement I’ve had to date. As an artist/poet, the largest room functions as studio, storage and office with meagre concessions for living space. I paint here, stockpile work, pay bills, watch TV, scarf meals, do tai chi. I also write sitting on a grey couch, footstool ready, cushions behind me, and the occasional blanket over my lap.
Being on the top floor serves both disciplines well. I enjoy high ceilings, airy light and generous windows. Views of cloud, cityscape, parkland, or a swatch of harbour channel offer places for eyes to land and rest while art-making or writing. In previous live-in workspaces, I’ve used anything for a focal pause or eye freshener when scenery outside was unremarkable or non-existent: spider plant, ornament, pet rock. I even meditated on strips of lumber once.
The studio motivates the writing with proof that creative enterprise yields results. If words feel laboured or hackneyed, sightlines of artwork, supplies, tools and equipment assure me the muse hasn’t left— it’s still loitering on the premises; waiting for options to manifest elsewhere. Conversely, after a spell of painting rubbish, I often stomp over to the couch, grab clipboard, recycled paper and mechanical pencil for a bout of mad scribbling to release frustrated artist energy in another expression.
I actually prefer to write surrounded by a sacred mess. Some practitioners need calm, uncluttered environments to engage with their craft, but I welcome stuff all over the place. Whether stepping over canvasses on the floor, a brush in one hand and reaching for pen with the other because the right poem title smacked into my head, or writing on the couch next to a food tray containing old chicken bones from one forgotten stir-fry, there’s something about a good disarray I find conducive to productivity. The culmination of a finished poem or painting—becomes the order pulled out of that fertile slovenliness.
Jean Eng is a visual artist and poet from Toronto. She is the author of the poetry collection Festival of All Souls (Inanna Publications). Her writing has appeared in CV2, Grain, The Fiddlehead, Room, and Vallum, and is also included in Best Canadian Poetry 2024. She has work forthcoming in Queen’s Quarterly.