Seattle artist Judith Kindler surrounds herself with creativity

photographed by Benjamin Benschneider

JUDITH KINDLER rushes to the door of her spacious Lower Queen Anne art studio, Atelier 31, where she's working to finish two shows at once. But Runkles, her kinetic Boston terrier/French bulldog, beats her to it.

Inside is a world photographed, captured in encaustics, bent in wire, molded, formed, fantastical, mysterious, beautiful, funny, strange, complicated, simple, old and modern. Bare white walls and concrete, buried beneath bunnies and pretty girls in dresses, a giant hot dog, birdies, more. Kindler and her assistant, Dino Martini, put in long hours at Atelier 31 producing work that is in demand.

Home is nearby, a brisk walk with Runkles. And if you think the artist would prefer to leave her work at the office, be prepared to be overwhelmed.

Kindler's life is made more rich by having art everywhere her eye might fall, her fingers might reach. It is her work and her obsession. Each evening, Kindler and her husband, attorney Kyle Johnson, open the door to their 2,000-square-foot condo and are greeted by Anne Siems, Scott Frish, Kiki Smith and Dan Webb. From their place on the wall, Kindler's own collection of white baby dresses billows in the breeze off the patio. But the billow is permanent. The dresses are waxed. If gazing is good, feeling is better. "Touch these," she says.

Turn the corner into the den and there is a commanding Julian Schnabel. Then it's a life-size stone man by James Croak, and an Ingrid Lahti, Deborah Oropallo, Squeak Carnwath.

This is how it goes. In a tour of her home, Kindler points out the art. Furniture, big, comfortable, classical, fills the spaces in between.

Any place art fits it goes. If it doesn't, room is made. The Frish in the guest bath is behind the door. Just off the kitchen stands a substantial Julie Speidel bronze. And on it goes like this. Faye Jones, Rachel Maxi, Molly Norris, Steve Jensen.

"We do rotate, and we've got a ton of stuff stored," she says, with a whaddayagonnado look. It's darned near impossible to pause and appreciate everything. Kindler guesses there are 350 works in the house and more than 700 in their collection.

So it seems odd that while the rest of the home is all art all the time the refrigerator remains a big blank canvas — except for two things: a small photo of Kindler and Johnson, and a postcard of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.

"She has been very instrumental to me in a very personal way," Kindler says of Kahlo. "Kyle and I were in Mexico a few years before the Frida Kahlo craze. We stumbled upon this woman in Zihuatanejo who ran a private museum. She took us on a backroom tour of Frida Kahlo's life through an artist's work. Kyle and I bought up every book we could find.

"I have always been hiding behind humor," Kindler says. "Seeing the strength she had visually to reveal her pain helped me do that. Being open to letting people see more into me.

"She's on here to remind me to open up; we all have these similar emotional experiences."

Passing a collection of santoses, Kindler says, "Each room has its own little sacred area. I like iconic figures. My work tends to iconic figures. When you look at defining truth, a single figure or a trinity, it's all referencing that religious iconic art."

Technology is hidden behind doors, in armoires. Terraces, each an Italian scene, wrap three sides of the condo.

Kindler and Johnson used to live in Kirkland. This suits them better.

"Being downtown, I live near everything that makes me alive."

Rebecca Teagarden is assistant editor of Pacific Northwest magazine. Benjamin Benschneider is a magazine staff photographer.