Deciding to live/work is like jumping headfirst into the void. Will you get anything done at all, or ever go out again? Long mornings are spent alone. You eat lunch at 10:30, or 2:45, have two lunches, or none at all. You sit on the bench, watch the clock, and wait for an idea.  You wait for your assistant to come wedge the clay, as you check your phone.  Does answering email in bed count as work? 

Familiar objects loom large as you pace the room. The whole world is compressed to the studio. Repeated images are: the snarl of cords from the desktop to the power strip; your work clothes in a pile; the empty tissue box; your cluttered worktable. This is your universe, and you are a shuttle, blasted into space, processing from above. You caress your laptop with constant fingering, and your fingers also leave prints in the clay.

When you stare into space is there thought? Images and information enter through your pupils. Where do they go after that? Often nowhere, but sometimes the information comes back, after being digested and transformed. The orb sculptures are not large eyes, but models for rooms where you can take a break from all this. There’s nothing Cartesian about them, thus the workday does not exist here. 

Life can be a beach if you let it.