The studio is a room that has learned to hold things. Light, mostly. But also the residue of attention — the hours that went nowhere, the hours that suddenly did.
My table has the marks of years on it. Rings from cups of tea. A scratch I made in a moment of frustration that I've since come to love. A stain that reminds me of the afternoon I dropped a whole jar of something dark and then, instead of cleaning it up, stood and looked at the pattern for twenty minutes. That stain is still there. It has become part of the floor.
I think of making as a form of listening. The work begins before I do — something stirs in the world and I am just the one who notices, who stays long enough to write it down or hold it still with light.
On the best days, the studio disappears. There is only the work, and then me, and then nothing separating the two. On the other days, it is simply a room with good light and a table I have known a long time.
Either way, I return to it. That, I think, is what it means to have a practice.