Much Ado About a Table

Artist and designer Karl Castro on the qualities that characterize his current workspace and gathering the will to work and create in the midst of a pandemic

Words and Images Karl Castro

American Standard
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I live in a tiny studio. It’s my first apartment since moving out of our family home (rather belatedly, very Filipino of me). I’d never have chosen to fit my life into a white shoebox whose best amenities are two sinks and a toilet. I never imagined consenting to be a caged mouse.

This particular box, however, had an expansive window. And when I saw the panorama of clouds and treetops, the horizon spined by a ridge of Rizal’s foothills, the box didn’t feel like such a constriction anymore. I decided it could be home.

In my space, two elements are most important to me. The first is light. Not that everything has to be bright, mind you, for my studio back home was dark by default. It is vital to my work; whether it be making paintings, examining printouts, or tending to plants, I need to see things in various states of light.

In a way, my current studio is my surrendering to light. The sun is my bulb, the window my lamp. I eschewed curtains and chose to live by the rhythms of natural light. I now wake up before sunrise, lest the blazing morning sun drive me out of bed. Like my plants, my work hours are attuned to daylight. When the sun calls it a day, I do too.

The second key element is my work area. Living in a one-room space, my desk has to play a multitude of functions: computer workstation, art studio, dining area, entertainment console, garden. A large plastic folding table was the cheapest option to achieve this. It’s a tough balance, but I’m used to navigating it.

The pandemic, however, proved to be a kind of tipping point. Due to quarantine and workflow pivots, my setup needed to do more. On top of its other roles, it now has to be a functional video editing suite, audio recording area, and stop motion animation studio for a new long-term project. I’d like to think I’m someone who adequately prepares and invests for what I need to do, so I wholeheartedly dove into adjusting my workspace. My solution was to switch from one mass to two modular ones: a large fixed working table and a smaller folding one, which can be moved around depending on what I’m working on for the day. In addition, two large wooden surfaces allow me to expand the tabletop’s look and scale if needed.

Ultimately, the look and feel of my space is a by-product not of some design aesthetic but of adaptation. My current desk’s two layers and storage legs help me manage clutter a bit better. My largest wall, which I previously kept intentionally blank, is now home to drafts that I mount and “live with” to see if they work. It also serves as open storage for paintings I made during the pandemic. In being able to use and curate the wall, I also reclaim a bit of a semblance of control over my life.

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In adapting my workspace setup, however, there was one thing I failed to account for. You can build a great desk, but you have to have the will to sit at it. Seeing everything laid out before me, I can’t help but feel paralyzed. Too many things I’m trying to do, too many tasks needing attention, too few resources, too small a bubble. The string, skillfully woven into a net containing the whole terrain of my life in a single room, has snapped.

And so now I spend most of my time, involuntarily, in bed staring out my window or watching fictional lives through a digital one. Like a good friend, my desk keeps me company despite everything, mocking me from across my bed. My new dual monitor setup gawks at me in my stupor, its gaping eyes vibrant with Cezanne’s apples, mine simply drained.

I turn away from its gaze some mornings while I look for solace in doing the laundry, heating up a meal, or rearranging whichever shelf bugs me that day. Don’t judge me, desk, c’mon, I’m trying to survive. That’s why you look the way you do. Give me some credit. I thought I could design my way into resilience. Then again, maybe it’s too early to tell that I was wrong.

Forgive me, desk. I thought that if I configure the right workspace elements, productivity and creativity would flow. Right now, it’s barely a babbling brook. But this desk, this tiny room, is an open challenge that taunts me every day: You’re equipped, you can get up, you can do better. I may not be able to do so today, but it’s a small comfort to know that if I ever get to break through the distress and anxiety, I know that everything I need is here on my desk, waiting for me. •


Seven Things on My Desk

by Karl Castro

Karl Castro is an independent artist and designer. His body of work straddles the fields of art, cinema, and design, with a view of their interaction with history and social consciousness. His design practice focuses on editorial design and creative consultancy, working primarily with cultural institutions, independent artists and publishers, and university presses. His book designs have won several Philippine National Book Awards, and he has mounted solo exhibitions at the Ayala Museum and Vargas Museum. He is a lecturer at Ateneo de Manila University’s Department of Fine Arts.

Karl at work at @karlfmcastro on Facebook and Instagram

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