My old oily buckets that drip with congealed linseed. My drop sheets, my drips, my paint encrusted carpet and all the dust. My cut out bits of cardboard, my strips of painted masking tape, my hand prints everywhere. My bottles and jars, my photos, my worn bits of graphite and blunt pencils. My moldy tea cups, my empty beer bottles, my grotty sink, my spray cans. My scattered clothing, my apron that stands up, my finger printed cd player. My chopped up old books, the scattered quotes on the wall, my well thumbed books of Neruda and Borgess. My unwashed dishes and all the years of music that follow me everywhere. My silver lined ceiling, my old timber plan drawers and the go away/come here paintings that I make on the walls.
God I love my studio.
