Only in rare instances do I ascribe to the theory that a room is alive—alive with memories, alive with revelations, alive with accomplishments—but Terry Wolverton’s Writers at Work has been swelling with life for twenty years.
The spacious room’s assertive orangeness, a pulsating palette for the imagination, is subjective, mercurial; it can be sexy, demanding, childlike, queer, fearless, brazen, and androgynous.
You and me in various stages, encompassing two decades and millions of words.
If the pulsating room on Fountain Avenue contradicts how many perceive art’s inherent grandeur, too bad. These are writers at work, honey. With muscle, they excavate, ruminate, explore and investigate; these writers sweat and get dirty.
No different than the neighboring body shops, Writers At Work is situated in the community, providing an artistic service that results in thousands upon thousands of pages that voyage all over the world, recording our diversity while underlining our humanity. And questioning, always questioning.