Susan Washington

Recently, I came across a fantastic post about the importance of a “third space” - that place outside of home and work where you can exist without pressure to perform, or perform by different standards. The idea stuck with me because, as an artist, the studio often is home, and art is never just “work.” Everything bleeds together. Which makes having some kind of outside zone feel not just useful, but essential.

It isn’t healthy for us to live only inside art constantly. We need breathing room away from it, whether that’s sweaty yoga, cooking with friends, or wandering into a new neighborhood just because. The funny thing is that even in those moments, art has a way of sneaking into the conversation because it is such a big part of who I am. People are naturally curious, and I don’t mind that, but I’ve learned the difference between indulging someone’s questions about my work and allowing myself to fully disconnect.


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That disconnect looks different at different times. For me, it often comes in the form of spontaneous adventure, even a small one can help me disconnect. I’ll wake up and think, _Let’s go here_, and suddenly I’m on a four-hour drive to a hot spring. That impulse to move, to see something new, is its own kind of fuel. Cooking does the same thing. If I pull out my French Laundry or Ottolenghi cookbook, I might just decide to throw a dinner party for ten that night. Planning the menu, shopping, cooking for hours - that ritual pulls me completely away from painting.

Because the truth is, the studio is never “off.” Even when you are not holding a brush, you are on. Looking at the canvas, scanning for what feels unresolved, it is all part of the work. And beyond creating, professional artists are also running a business: marketing, selling, shipping. The “on” switch rarely flips off.

I’ve had to learn this the hard way. I’ve never run out of ideas, I keep a running list, but I’ve definitely had to step back and force downtime. Early in my career, that terrified me. I worried that if I stopped, I might never start again. That fear pushed me to grind nonstop, but nonstop is not sustainable. Over time, I realized rest is not the enemy. It has become a crucial part of my progression and practice, something I build in now instead of fighting against.


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Living in Baltimore has made it easier. Within minutes of the city, there are trails, rivers, and lakes to get lost in. Hiking and kayaking give me a space where I am not an artist, not a business owner, just a person moving through the world. Sometimes I’ll get on a boat with a friend, or even just hop the ferry across the harbor to feel the air shift around me. These places matter because they remind me I am not only defined by my output.

And here’s what surprised me: the more I allowed myself to claim that “elsewhere,” the better both my art and my business became. It doesn’t have to be just one thing or one place. It’s whatever gives you permission to let go. Sometimes that’s yoga that leaves me drenched, sometimes it’s disappearing into a trail, sometimes it’s standing over the stove with music playing while I cook something slow and messy, sometimes it’s a last-minute dinner party. The point is that it shifts, and that’s okay. What matters is that it’s a space where you can stop performing and simply exist.

And sometimes that space is about community. A dinner table filled with ten friends, a pickup game of volleyball, a neighborhood gathering where nobody cares what you sold last week or what your Instagram looks like, these are also important spaces. They remind us that connection does not always have to be about networking or visibility. It can be about laughing, sweating, eating, sharing a moment that belongs to life itself rather than to art or business. That is a kind of nourishment that is hard to find inside the studio.


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Stepping out doesn’t make you less of an artist or a less serious business owner. It makes you more whole. It brings back the spark. Sometimes it shows up as new ideas, but more often it just shows up as energy and clarity when I return. The act of allowing myself to simply let go and explore and exist away from my art carries me back into the studio with even more focus.

The art world pressures us to grind endlessly, to produce, to always be visible. But making sustainable work isn’t about endless output, it’s about rhythm. It’s about knowing when to step out so you can step back in fully present. Your studio is not your third space. That is work. Your living room is not your third space. That is home. You need something else that belongs only to you.

And here’s the truth: it doesn’t matter if your space is a yoga studio, a hiking trail, or your grandmother’s kitchen. It doesn’t matter if it shifts with the seasons or even with your moods. It is not about consistency, it is about permission - permission to be off, to be human, to be more than your art and more than your business for a little while.

It is not indulgence. It is survival. And it is the part of survival that keeps both the art and the business alive, too.


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Every artist needs a third space - a place beyond home and studio to recharge, reconnect, and return to their practice with renewed clarity.

For Artists, Rest Isn’t Luxury — It’s Survival

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