#25: Why I Sometimes Work on Sundays
I’ve always loved the quiet of Sundays. The slow mornings, the gentle rhythm of the day. Sundays have a softness to them — a feeling of pause, of being allowed to just be.
But yesterday, I found myself back in the studio. Brushes out, music playing, the familiar scent of paint in the air. Not because I had to — although there’s always a to-do list, always something to finish — but because I wanted to. Because the paintings were pulling at me, and I knew that sometimes, the best kind of rest is the kind that lets you move in a different way.
The Fine Line Between Duty and Desire
There’s a real difference between working because you have to and working because you want to. When it feels like a duty — a deadline to meet, a show to prepare for — there’s a weight to it. A kind of pressure that can squeeze the life out of a painting if I’m not careful. But when I come in on a Sunday because I’m curious, because there’s something unresolved that I can’t stop thinking about, it doesn’t feel like work. It feels like… possibility.
I think that’s the heart of the balance: listening to when the studio feels like a calling, and when it feels like a burden. And being honest enough with myself to know the difference.
Rest as Part of the Work
I used to think of rest and work as opposites. One was what you did to recover from the other. But more and more, I see how they’re woven together. How the long walks, the conversations with friends, the quiet cups of tea in the morning — all of that isn’t separate from the painting. It’s what lets me come back to it with something new to give.
There are weeks when rest is the most important thing I can do for the work. When the best thing for a painting is to leave it alone for a while and let the ideas breathe. And there are weeks when the studio feels like a kind of rest in itself — a way of stepping away from the noise of the world and finding my own rhythm again.
Sundays in the Studio
Yesterday was one of those days. The world outside was still. No emails. No deadlines pressing in. Just me, the canvas, and the small voice in my head that said, “What if you tried this? What if you let this colour lead?” It was the kind of day where time doesn’t matter much. Where there’s no real plan, just the gentle pull of curiosity.
I know I can’t work like that all the time. There are limits — and I’m learning to respect them. But I’m also learning to trust that sometimes, the best work comes from those in-between spaces. The unplanned hours. The Sundays when the line between rest and effort blurs, and the work becomes a kind of quiet joy.
Holding Space for Both
Painting has taught me a lot about balance — not just in composition, but in life. About knowing when to lean in and when to step back. About how sometimes the best thing I can do is walk away, and sometimes the best thing I can do is to show up, even when the calendar says I shouldn’t.
I don’t have it all figured out. I’m still learning how to listen to that small voice — the one that knows when it’s time to pause and when it’s time to pick up the brush. But I do know this: working on a Sunday doesn’t always mean I’m pushing too hard. Sometimes, it means I’m finally letting the work move at the pace it needs. And that’s the kind of balance I want to keep finding — in the studio, and everywhere else.
.M.
Be real.
Make art.
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