It is another cool morning, but the snow is melting and hints of spring are visable. But only if you consider a winters worth of dog poo a hint of spring.
I’ve never been too fussy about light quality in my studio. I like to have enough light to be able to see what I’m doing, but I’m not the sort to go on and on about the perfect North light. As a result I’ve always been able to work in just about any space I’ve had to. I guess if I was a portrait painter or a landscape painter I’d be a bit more concerned about light quality, but as it is all I really need is to be able to tell what colour I’m using and where the tip of my brush is.
There is a storm raging outside, and inside the studio is pushing against the seams.
The floor of my studio is as pretty as a painting. If you like that type of painting. It is also a many layer historical record of my odd interests and obsessions.
The studio is a mess, and the house is just one big pile of mismatched mittens, and even the snow outside is dirty, and slowly rotting in that ugly way of snow that is mixed with sand, salt, and dog pee.
In February things start to slide a bit, and I find myself becoming a little scruffier each day. I’ve been told that it’s time for a haircut, and I wake up each morning with an oddly sculpted shag of hair that goes beyond bedhead and into abstraction. Maybe I’ll watch some Danish television to cheer myself up.