It’s just a single piece of plywood. Tipped on it’s side. With holes punched through it. Everyone, meet my easel.
When we moved back to America 3 years ago, I told my dad I wanted an easel that wasn’t precious. I wanted to be able to beat it up, store things on it, and just have an all-around versatile workspace. He made it happen.
Off to the hardware store we went, purchased one piece of plywood (that was before prices spiked in southern Oregon. I’d have to sell a kidney to buy a piece of plywood now!), and brought it back home.
Using his mathy brain, he drilled holes 6 inches apart in length and 18 inches apart in height. We then bought the same amount of nails, which I move around depending on where I need to hang canvases.
Along the top, I added a row of screws that I hang my tubes of paint on.
We propped that bad boy on two cinder blocks and leaned it against the wall. Viola!
It’s simple. It’s ugly. It’s perfect!
