Time behaves strangely when I’m in my studio. Or maybe it just stops existing altogether. I’ll start on a painting—or six—and before I know it, the sun has shifted, the dogs have moved to new cozy spots, and my husband is calling me for dinner.
“Ten more minutes,” I’ll say, convinced that I mean it. Then, what feels like ten minutes later, I emerge from my studio—only to find out that an hour (or more) has passed. David is used to it by now, but he still reminds me that timers exist for a reason. I’m trying to do better about that.
Me in my studio working on Love 09 from the LOVE collection.
There’s something about painting that overrides my usual sense of time. My brain plugs in on so many levels at once—the colors, the textures, the movement of my brush, the subtle shifts in composition. It’s a full sensory immersion, where thought and instinct blend together, and time just… disappears.
Of course, getting lost in time has its advantages. For one, I’m never bored. There’s always something unfolding on the canvas, another decision to make, another layer to add. My work also tends to move quickly when I’m in that state—one mark leads to another, and suddenly the piece starts revealing itself in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
But this timelessness also means I have to be careful. As much as I love the flow of creation, I also need to remember the world outside my studio. Meals, sleep, the occasional walk in the woods—these things matter, too. So, I set timers (sometimes I even listen to them). And when I finally step away, I try to remind myself that time isn’t my enemy or my captor—it’s just another element, like color or texture, that I work with in my own way.
How do you experience time when you create? Do you get lost in it, too?