I feel vastly inferior to all the writers we read about in terms of discipline. Which means I have none. I do get work done outside of class, it's just so erratic that it's hard for me to pinpoint a particular method.
For instance, tonight I made some sketches of my brother, Ben, and my boyfriend, Michael. I dug around for some paper, found a teeny piece of charcoal rolling around somewhere, sat on my bedroom floor, and sketched. I had to take pictures earlier today instead of a live sitting--I wouldn't torture those close to me that way.
In terms of painting, I am a huge, huge, huge procrastinator because I absolutely hate the prep work and the clean up. I need an intern. If my little brother weren't a bigger slob than I am, I would probably pay him to clean my brushes for me. Once I get into it I can go for hours on end; it's just the thought of being responsible with my materials that makes me shiver. Which doesn't make sense. I have lots of excuses.
Right now, my excuse for not painting is that I haven't stretched and primed the canvasses I need. Also, my easel is at my parent's house and I just moved back to my grandmother's house. Also, I'm lazy. Although I did draw tonight which counts for something!
I'm rambling because I don't know how to express my studio practice. I suppose 'rambling' is the perfect way to describe it.
Here's a picture of the boardwalk at Plum Island that I took a few years ago. When I came across it tonight, it reminded me of the class (inexplicably--something about a journey or a path we're on that leads to a mysterious end):
