A Morning in the Studio

There is a myth that studios are romantic places, and a competing myth that they are workshops like any other. Mine is a former grain store with one enormous north-facing window, and it is both things at once, depending on the hour.

The day starts at six with coffee and looking. Not drawing — looking. Whatever is on the easel gets half an hour of silent attention before I am allowed an opinion about it. More problems are solved in that half hour than in the whole rest of the day.

By seven the north light is reliable and the actual work begins. Chalk work is physical in a way people don't expect: the large pieces are drawn standing, at arm's length, whole-arm movements, and by nine there is dust on everything I own, including the coffee.

Afternoons are for the small disciplines — sharpening, stretching paper, photographing finished work, answering collectors. And at the end of every day, ten minutes of looking again. The drawing you leave at dusk is the drawing you find at dawn, but somehow it always has something new to say.