It took me a long time to admit that I had a "studio." That term seemed pretentious in relation to what I was doing. A studio implies a serious artist who practiced serious art in a place full of carefully selected art supplies - sable brushes, 300# archival paper, professional pigments, all employed in a room with the perfect light. While I take the work of art seriously, the resulting paintings usually have a humorous twist. I've tried to eradicate the humor in an attempt to be taken seriously (why, I don't know), but it seems humor is an essential part of who I am and will not go away and I've decided to embrace it.
I paint in what used to be the kid's play room. It's in the basement. The only natural light comes through a small ground level window, most of it absorbed by the concrete of the driveway, so that by the time it breaches my "studio" it's tired and weak. When we moved into this house, the walls had brown paneling, brown carpet, a single light bulb suspended from the ceiling. It looked more like the haunt of a mental patient than a place where kids might like to spend some time. So I added yellow paint and wallpaper, made a faux window on one wall complete with little curtains that always opened on the painted blue sky with charming clouds. At one point I added a UFO to that sky. But the kids never really played there and finally grew up and moved away. It turns out I was creating my studio long before I knew I could paint. It's become MY playroom, the one I never had or admitted I wanted. Funny how things work out like that.
Now when I paint I can look at the never-shifting clouds and the UFO that is perpetually in a holding pattern. I added 2 lamps so I can see, an old rug bought so the floor's not so cold, I've filled the room with every kind of art supply I could afford, and hang the results of my endeavors on any available patch of wall. I have a haven now, a playground, my " studio" where the skies are always blue (at least on one side of the room).