A positive and productive studio practice happens day by day. It begins with the way I walk through the door: the earlier I arrive, the quieter the floor, the better. I feel inspired when I begin with a quiet, peaceful space, and my mood is more enthusiastic when I have a long stretch of uninterrupted studio time in front of me. There is something about an early start to the day that makes me feel ready to go again, no matter what happened the day before: good things often happen on days when I can greet my studio before the sun is fully up.
The rituals I perform upon arriving at my studio are important pieces of my practice: making a pot of coffee, starting up some music, organizing and decluttering my workspace are all signals that I have entered sacred studio space and time. One unexpected and beneficial result of straightening up has been that through the act of cleaning drawings and material sketches off my workspace and haphazardly pinning them to the wall, I have more than once discovered a new solution to something previously unresolved.
Along with my morning habits, I like to start my day with a plan. If I don’t have one when I walk into my studio, going through that familiar routine allows me the time to figure out what I need to do that day. A plan, whether it is to work on a specific project that I’ve already begun, or to simply goof off on my loom and see what happens, anchors me in my practice: without that, I feel like I’m floating in space, with no direction and no clue where to begin. A basic idea of how I will spend my time in studio, whether or not I actually adhere to it, gives me a jumping off point and a purpose, and with that I look forward to my day.
Long stretches in the studio sound so appealing at those moments when I can’t seem to get to work for even five minutes. But those wonderful, luxurious studio days only lead to productivity and true breakthrough when they are punctuated by days full of the other obligations in life that keep me away. It’s easy to hole up in the studio and become totally consumed with a project, but in order to keep my time there absolutely vital, I need the sometimes-pesky interruptions of class, artist lectures, teaching, sleeping, and the occasional bath or shower. Real life, though often inconvenient, forces me outside, and keeps me from stewing in my own juices to the point where I should in no way be trusted to make any decisions about my work. Besides, many of my “aha” moments come randomly from beyond the studio, when I’m walking down the street, listening to a guest artist, reading a wonderful book, or even in class, where I am asked to think in a different way than I think when I’m making. This away time is just as important, and with both I achieve a balance that keeps me from taking any time in studio for granted, increasing my productivity and the quality of my work.
I realize that I haven’t mentioned anything about studio visitors or critiques as contributing to a positive outcome in my studio practice. Though they are necessary to my thought and making processes, these things are only helpful to me when the previous conditions have already been met. If my mind is not right, or my routine is not right, I cannot bring something out of myself that would really benefit from outside opinions. This could seem like a weird mental block, but that’s how I work, and I don’t think it’s a bad thing, just my thing. So first, a good studio practice starts with me and only me. When things are good I am making work, being productive…and this has a snowball effect: I have things I am excited to share and get feedback on, which in turn can spur deeper understanding and resolve in the work, and things are still good.
Though a lapse in direction or struggling with work which is not working often seems like a bad, horrible, bottomless-pit-of-despair kind of situation when one is in that moment, I have come to see this emotional sinkhole as a normal cycle of my studio practice, just as the high of running with a really exciting, provocative idea is, and not a negative experience at all. I try to see both good and bad studio experiences as opportunities to learn a lesson, and often the so-called “bad” experiences are what teach me the most. A bad day is uncomfortable, and this state forces me to reevaluate my methods, to look from a new angle, and to be better than I was before. Ultimately nothing absolutely has to lead to negative outcomes in the studio: every event and every day can contribute to growth in my work and the way I think about working, if I can remember to stop, step back, and notice the bigger picture.
