I do not live in Nouvelle, the upscale apartments in the Natick Mall, but I have my own home of sorts in my studio in the former Burberry store. I try to imagine the tailor whose area was where my studio is now. There is no more needle and thread, though I did find a pin left behind. Adjusting luxury fabrics by hemming, trimming, tucking no longer goes on. Instead adjustments are made to fit a new painting with the right colors and shapes and my tool is a paint brush. I try to take good care of the space as who knows what its next life will be. I would like to stay forever though at my age that no longer seems to stretch into too long to think about. My recent painting of the Blue Bull has a jacket that the previous tailor might have raised an eyebrow about. It's ruffles edged by a gold pen, bits of the Bull's chest peeking through looking robust to my eye. We recently discovered that many of the massive mirrors are actually doors to storage with adjustable shelves, You can imagine the rapture an artist feels on finding more places to store all the toys of art making. Maybe it isn't too odd for me to step back, look at my painting, and whisper 'What do you think?" to the spirits of tailors past. I imagine his or her reply to be 'I like those lines, they look like stitches', 'A bit off the side of that shape would work.' Why is that any stranger than the imaginary conversations I have with Picasso, and lately Chagall?