#28: What I Bring Into the Studio (That Has Nothing to Do with Art)

Before I even pick up a brush, before the paint is squeezed out and the canvas adjusted just so, I’ve already brought so much into the studio — and most of it has absolutely nothing to do with art.

There’s what I had for breakfast. The conversation I had the night before that’s still turning over in my mind. A strange dream. A song I can’t stop humming. Maybe the lingering tension of a bad night’s sleep. Maybe the calm of a good walk, or the clarity from time at the gym. Sometimes it’s just the weather — grey light filtering through the window and changing how everything feels.

None of this is part of the “plan”, but it all shows up anyway. Over time, I’ve realised it shapes the work as much as the brushes or the colour palette ever could.

You Can’t Paint in a Vacuum

There’s a myth that once you step into the studio, everything else should fall away — that artists work best when they’re detached, focused, clean of distraction. I used to think I had to force that kind of separation. That the outside world should stay outside so the work could stay pure.

But I’ve learned that the line between life and painting is blurry at best. What happens before I enter the studio walks in with me, whether I want it to or not. And when I ignore it — when I try to shut it out — the work gets tight, hesitant. It stops breathing.

So instead, I try to pay attention.

Mood Has a Colour

There are days when I’m restless, and the paint lands more forcefully. My marks are bolder, less careful. There are days when I feel more inward, and the whole piece stays softer — greyer, slower, more patient. I might not realise it at the time, but when I look back later, I can see the feeling all over the canvas.

Sometimes it’s in the gestures, the palette, or the way I leave things unfinished. Sometimes it’s in what I choose not to paint.

It’s never just about the composition. It’s about what I’m carrying when I sit down to begin.

Not Every Influence Is Obvious

The music I listen to on the way to the studio. A funny moment in a podcast that changes my mood. The warmth of a recent memory. All of these things swirl into the background of a painting session, invisible but present.

There’s something oddly comforting about that — knowing that even when I’m unsure what to paint, my life is already shaping the direction. My job, in a way, is just to let it.

Being Fully Human in the Studio

What I’ve come to appreciate is that I don’t need to compartmentalise myself. I can bring all of me into the studio — not just the painter version, but the tired one, the joyful one, the anxious one, the one that’s still thinking about something someone said two days ago.

Some of my favourite pieces have come from days when I felt completely unsure. When I sat down to work because I needed to, not because I knew what I was doing. And somehow, what came out was honest. Not perfect, but true.

Letting It All In

Now, I try to make space for the unseen things. I take note of how I’m feeling before I begin. I don’t always use it consciously, but I let it be there. Because it’s going to show up anyway. And maybe that’s not something to resist — maybe it’s something to trust.

So yes, I bring my materials and ideas and plans into the studio. But I also bring the weather. The music. The memory of a laugh. The ache in my shoulders. The question I don’t have an answer to yet.

And in the end, I think that’s what gives the work its soul.

.M.

Be real.

Make art.

If you’d like to learn more about my creative process or see my latest work, feel free to reach out or check out the rest of my website.