Before the Studio

For a long time, I struggled to build a consistent art practice at home.

At first, I thought I simply needed more time. It seemed obvious. Between work, my children, and everything else, if I could carve out a few hours, I would finally be able to paint.

Eventually, I found the time.

And I still wasn't going to the studio. Other tasks quietly took its place.

So I concluded that I needed to protect that time at all costs. That was true... but only partly. Because even when I made it into the studio, there were days when I no longer knew what to do. I felt like a small pond fish suddenly dropped into the ocean.

So I looked for answers. I kept reading the same advice: just show up consistently. Inspiration will follow.

So... discipline.

Once again, yes... and no.

Still searching for that discipline, I slowly built a routine—one that shaped not only our daily life with the children, but also the way I entered the studio.

Whatever form it took, that routine helped me immensely.

Just not for the reasons I expected.

I thought it was helping me save time, or become more disciplined.

Now I believe it was doing something else entirely: it was lightening the work my brain had to do.

When a routine becomes automatic, it removes countless tiny decisions. What are we eating today? Am I going for a walk? Do I start now, or in an hour? Each decision seems insignificant, but together they accumulate.

Sometimes I imagine my brain has a limited number of decisions it can make in a day. If everyday life uses them all, there are none left for the studio.

And creating is, above all, an act of commitment.

Choosing one path over countless others.

What deserves my attention. What can be left behind. Which format to choose. Which light to follow. When to keep going. When to stop.

I was looking for more time to create.

Then I went looking for discipline.

Eventually, I had to accept what had been in front of me all along.

Creation didn't begin when I walked into the studio. It began much earlier, in all those invisible gestures that finally made my mind available for it to exist.