A Day in the Studio

My studio is my temple, my sacred ground.

I come here to escape the demands of providing for my family and raising a toddler.

The moment I close the door, I strip down, removing the clothes and emotional baggage I carry in day-to-day life. I slip on a tank top covered in paint and a pair of gym shorts — the painting uniform that allows me to crouch, sweat, and spill.

I paint on the ground.

I like feeling connected to the earth, tuned into the frequency that moves all of us.

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Before I begin, I sit in front of the canvas and close my eyes. I place my hand gently on the canvas and ask the painting what it needs, how I can help it come to life.

And then I wait. I wait until the answer appears in front of my eyelids. I don’t listen to music for fear of missing any subtle cues the piece may wish to express.

The soft swish of the brush moving paint across canvas becomes a meditative trance.

Hours float by as the piece births itself.

When I sit back to wrap up for the day, I often gasp audibly. The whole of the piece catches me by surprise. There is always something I couldn’t see from my myopic focus on the task of making. Sometimes there is surprising synchronicity or dissonance or anguish.

I know a piece is finished when that “wholeness” makes me uncomfortable, makes me want to hide.

That’s when I know the piece is channeling the power of something greater than me.

I then lovingly paint the edges gold and place my hands on the piece for a final blessing and expression of gratitude.

I then hang the piece on the wall, pull out a new canvas, and place new canvas on the floor.

The cycle begins again.

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