The word studio makes my home sound so artsy. A creative haven. The locale of a literary salon.

Sadly, this tour won’t be even remotely prestigious.

Nor is it a full-fledged tour. Per se. The kitchen and bathroom don’t even make an appearance.

Basically, I’m telling you this entire post is one big misleading disaster.

I should probably just call it a day, and give it another go tomorrow.

However, what would be the fun in that?

Dark. Mysterious. Cave-like. New Yorkers piling up.

String of lights. Yes, I originally hung them up for Christmas.

One of my favorite little Picasso pieces. Don Quixote. (And a good – though hefty – book to boot.)

OK, this is Colorado. I’m allowed my cowboy hat and rope. It’s for the dogies.

This is my attic corner. In that it looks like a scene you’d discover in an attic. Crates of books. An aged copy of the Declaration of Independence (no, it’s not real, sadly, though if you want to reenact key moments from “National Treasure” give me a shout). Things.

A ceiling fan. Yep, not much more to say about that. Just, move along.

Ta-da! Big finish!

What? You’re not impressed?

You were expecting fireworks?

From one pyro to another (surely I have at least one pyro among you), so was I.

So was I.

(All photos shot using the Hipstamatic app,  John S lens and Ina’s 1969 film.)