I shifted my worktable three inches toward the window last week, chasing the winter light, and it has thrown off my entire system. The water jar is now exactly where my brush hand lands when I reach for the palette. I have knocked it over twice. Twice in one week, which is twice more than in the previous eight years combined.

The annoying part is I know precisely why it happened. My table has marks on the floor where the legs sit, worn into the boards over time. I ignored them. I thought the light would be worth it.

It was not worth it. I have spent more time wiping up rose madder than I have painting.

The real lesson, I suppose, is that a studio is not a room, it is a set of habits with furniture in it. I have moved the table back and I am trying not to be cross with myself for the lost week. Tomorrow I will repaint the page I ruined and we will all pretend it never happened.