I carved intermittently from the 1960s through the mid-seventies. Going to graduate school put an end to most carving activities, and I didn't pick it up again until 1992.
Every winter, I look for entertaining and educational reads to fill the evening; I lost the TV habit many years ago.
If you buy too many woodworking magazines, you may develop shop and tool envy.
While teaching, I always like to decorate the workshop with carving examples for students to use as a reference. Week-long excursions to teach away from home mean emptying the house of many of my carvings. But samples in three dimensions often are better than pictures or demonstration, and the extra work was worth it.
A shop with all the tools neatly racked, and no chips are like a clean desk—a sign of a sick mind.
Because of the good and bad of the design, it's a piece I love and hate.
Seeing may be believing, but feel will give you a less biased second opinion.
My mentors were just that, mentors. Several couldn't afford the expense that having an actual apprentice would cost; others were not interested. But then by the 1960s, the old apprenticeship programs in crafts like carving were gone.
There is a parable in the boat building Trades, it also applies to maritime carving: Want to know how to make a small fortune in the trade? Start with a large one—best of luck.
Lots of us have small shops either through design or necessity. In my case, I deliberately downsized as I shifted from doing larger maritime work like quarterboards and transoms and started focusing on ship and boat portraits. Whatever reason you have for smaller quarters, I encourage you to rethink the conventional wisdom that large is always best.