My studio is a war zone.
There’s paint everywhere. On the floor, the walls, my elbows (don’t ask). Sketches are scattered like fallen soldiers, some face down in puddles of turpentine. A tube of burnt sienna exploded yesterday. I haven’t cleaned it up. I probably never will.
And I’m thriving.
Because I’m working on the project.
It’s all I can think about. Morning, noon, and night. Especially night. I wake up at 3 a.m. and scribble ideas in the dark like a mad scientist. My notebook is a disaster. Half sentences. Doodles. Coffee stains.
I can’t talk about it yet. The gallery would kill me. (Or at least maim me. And I need both hands to finish this thing.)
But I can tell you this: it’s electric.
My brain won’t stop. Every second, it’s another idea. Another color. Another shape. I was making tea this morning, and somehow I ended up staring at the steam, thinking, That’s the texture I need. I forgot the tea.
I’m living in this project. Completely. My studio is chaos. My sleep is nonexistent. My diet is… let’s call it questionable. But none of that matters. Because right now, it feels like the work is alive. Bigger than me. Like I’m just here to follow it wherever it wants to go.
It’s messy. It’s exhausting.
And I love it.