Working from home takes on a whole new meaning at Margit Wittig’s place. We’re in her apartment – an advert for the airy loveliness of lateral living, found within a handsome red-brick mansion block in Earl’s Court – where the artist has sprawled the tools of her trade across the elegant teak dining table. And the kitchen island. And most of her daughter’s bedroom. “I’m always making something,” she says, surrounded by sketchbooks, tins of verdigris wax and paintbrushes. Such a statement is frankly needless; everywhere you look in this space you’ll see the fruits of Margit’s labours: chandeliers, room dividers, half-finished lamp bases, candlesticks made of towered and dimpled “pearls”. Even the large abstract paintings on the walls are hers. “That way, I know the colours will go.”
Life has always been a creative endeavour for Margit. She was born in Germany to an artist mother, one of three siblings. “To keep us occupied, my mum got us to make things.” Every year come Christmastime, each member of the family was tasked with casting their own tree ornament using melted wax and silicone moulds made by Margit’s mother. From November onwards, the children would be busy knocking on neighbours’ doors, asking for unwanted candle stubs that could be transformed into angels and stars. “My mother was very keen on patina, so we’d then be given some gold powder to make them shine,” says Margit, her own eyes gleaming at the memory. “I suppose that’s when I got the bug.”
