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My main workspace faces north-ish and in winter the light is this flat grey thing that flattens everything I'm cutting. I know people who chase the sun around their house with their work, move their table every few hours. I just... work in it. Put a task lamp on it and get on with it. The colours look different when the piece finally gets into proper light anyway, I've learned to allow for it. My conservation teacher used to say you should only ever judge a mosaic in the light it's going to live in, which is fine if you're doing a floor for a church in Palaiokastritsa, not so helpful when your client's living room faces west and you're working under a cloud.

Spent three afternoons fighting a small still life, same setup, same corner of the studio, and I kept pulling the canvas off the easel and starting again. Not because anything was wrong with it. Because the light was wrong in a way I couldn't name. Then it hit me around the third try, standing there with a rag in my hand: the sun is sitting lower now. October. The angle changed and I was still painting like it was July, expecting that warm top light and getting this thin pale side light instead. My own studio, forty-four years old, and I still paint by the light I remember instead of the light that's there. Took the whole morning to admit it. So I repainted the background, put the window where it actually is in the composition, and let the thing be colder than I wanted. It's better now. It's just not the painting I was trying to make, and I think that's the lesson I keep paying tuition on.

Sold a painting last month. Interior, early morning light coming through a window, that grey-gold hour I actually like better than any sunset. Man who bought it emails me two weeks later: could I make the light warmer, his wife finds the room in the painting cold and it's in their dining room now. I said no. Politely the first time. Then he wrote again offering to pay extra. As if it were a colour grading slider in a video app. The whole painting is built on that light, the shadows are cool because the light is cool, you warm it and every edge in the piece collapses. He wasn't asking me to change a painting. He was asking me to change the wallpaper. What I wanted to say is that a painting is not decor that failed to match the sofa. What I said was that I'd buy it back if it didn't suit the room. He went quiet after that. The funny thing is I'd have discussed almost anything else. Composition, palette, even the frame. But there's a line where the thing stops being mine and starts being a product, and I couldn't pretend I didn't see it.

Was out sketching near Ulsoor Lake this morning and the way the light hit those old houses near the market… it was just golden. Made me think about how much of what I try to capture is just about that fleeting light, you know? The same crumbling wall looks entirely different at 8 AM versus 3 PM. It’s a race sometimes, trying to get it down before it shifts. Does anyone else feel that intensely about the light where they are?

There's a window in my studio, west-facing, and from about four to five in the afternoon the light comes in a certain way I've been chasing for weeks now. Today I finally got the composition right, blocking in a little still life of apricots and a blue cloth. And the light moved. It does that. Every single day, and I still get annoyed like it's a personal betrayal. My daughter says just photograph it. She's sixteen, of course she does. But the photo freezes the wrong thing. That moving light is the whole point, the thing you're actually painting. You paint the instant where it was right and you keep the memory of it shifting. I got maybe fifteen decent minutes in before it went flat and grey. Left the apricots on the table because tomorrow they'll be a little less perfect, and that's the real subject anyway. Some days it's like trying to catch a fish with your hands. And I don't want it any other way, which probably says something about me.

The only wall in my house with decent natural light is the hallway between the kitchen and the bedrooms. So that's where my easel lives. I get maybe 45 minutes of good light in the late afternoon before it shifts and everything I'm mixing starts to look wrong. I've gotten weirdly good at working fast in that window. Lay down the big shapes first, save the fine detail for the evening under the overhead light even if the colors are off, because I know from experience they'll read fine by morning. The kids step over the drop cloth like it's always been there. My husband hung a towel over the window on the bathroom door once and I nearly cried with gratitude. I tell myself someday I'll have a real studio but honestly I'd probably just end up painting in a different hallway.

Every year around this time I lose the light in my studio. The sun shifts, the building across the street blocks it, and for about six weeks I work under a flat grey that tells me nothing. I know it's coming and I still curse it. Today I spent forty minutes mixing a warm grey I could already see I didn't trust, because the light was lying to me. Wiped it off. Mixed again. Same thing. Finally put on a coat of titanium white on a scrap board just to have something true to look at. I don't use artificial light for painting. Never have. So I just wait it out, work on drawings, scrape old canvases, clean brushes I don't need to clean. It's a kind of enforced pause I didn't ask for. Maybe it's good for me. I'll let you know in November.

For about 45 minutes between 3 and 4 this time of year, there's a stripe of sun that comes through the window and lands right on the piece I'm working on. Not the whole thing, just one corner, one patch of tesserae. And I've started timing my grout mixing around it because if I'm still cutting when that light hits, I just stop and watch it for a bit before I do anything else. It's stupid because the light doesn't change the work. But the smalti lights up from the inside in a way that reminds me why I do this in the first place. Like oh yeah, that's what I'm trying to do. Anyone else have a weird little ritual that's really just an excuse to pause for a minute?

I paint by the window in the morning because the light is supposed to be better, that's what every tutorial says, right? But my window faces west. So the light I'm getting at 7am is this weak, flat thing that barely casts a shadow. By the time the light gets interesting, it's 2pm and I've already lost momentum. I keep telling myself I'll shift my table to the other room where the east window is. But that room has the dining table and my mother-in-law's plants and it just doesn't feel like my space. So instead I sit here at my west-facing window with my lukewarm morning light and make it work. I finally bought one of those little clip-on daylight lamps last week. It helps, but it's not the same. There's something about real morning light on watercolour, the way it hits the paper at an angle and you can actually see the sheen of the wet wash. Can't fake that with a lamp. Anyone else make do with a workspace that's technically wrong for what you do?

okay so there's this window in my apartment that gets this specific soft afternoon light around 3pm and I've been trying to catch it for like... months now. This month alone I've done 14 studies of it. 14. Same window, same view of the neighbor's slightly sad little balcony, different light every time. My partner thinks I've lost it. Maybe I have. But here's the thing – every single time I think I've figured out how to paint that quality of light, the next day it's different and I realize I was wrong. The color temperature shifts, or there's a haze, or the whole thing goes golden for like twenty minutes before it's gone. Watercolor is SO unforgiving about this because you can't just paint over it, you have to get it right while it's wet or you lose it forever. And I keep losing it. My mom called yesterday and asked if I'd sold any of them yet and I was like Mom I can't sell them they're all failures. She didn't get it. But I think there's something in the repetition, you know? Like each one teaches me something the last one couldn't. I'm not chasing a perfect painting, I'm chasing understanding how light actually works. Anyway I laid them all out on the floor last night to compare and honestly it's kind of beautiful seeing them together even if none of them are The One. Might keep going until I run out of paper or winter comes and the light changes completely. Then I guess I'll start over.

I have a small interior study I've been fighting for weeks. A corner of my studio, the chair by the window, nothing grand. It never sat right. Every time I looked at it I knew the light was wrong but I couldn't say why. This morning I woke before the alarm, went down in the half-dark, and there was that particular grey Lyonnais light, the flat diffuse one that comes off the river. And I saw it. The painting had been lit like an afternoon in my head, warm and golden, but the room itself only ever looks like this. Grey. Honest. I mixed a little ivory black into everything, cooled the whole thing down, and it just... clicked. Two hours, gone. Funny that the answer was to make it less pretty. I think I'd been painting what I wanted the room to be instead of what it is. The chair looks more like the chair now than it ever did with all that fake sun on it. It's still not the painting I thought I was making. It's better.

I spent the whole afternoon yesterday just looking at my kitchen table. Not painting it. Not photographing it. Just watching how the light moved across the surface of a wooden bowl, a half-empty glass, a cloth I'd left crumpled. From about 3:30 to 5, the quality of it, that cold winter light coming in low, bouncing off the building across the street, was something I could never invent and could never capture with a camera. The photos I took are dead. Flat. They have all the information and none of the truth. It makes me wonder how much time I've wasted collecting reference images when I should have been training my eye to hold what it sees. The camera is a crutch. A useful one, I use it too. But it flattens everything into information, and painting is not about information.

I spent this morning painting a section of an old workbench in my studio. The light here in Lyon, even on a cloudy day, has this particular quality that catches the grain of the wood, the worn patches where tools have rested for years. It’s a subtle thing, this interplay of light and texture, but it’s what I’m always chasing. It makes you feel the history of the object. It’s why I love oils so much; the paint itself can hold that physical sensation. Some days it feels like a battle to get it right, but when it clicks, voilà.

Honestly the amount of my "studio practice" that is just me physically relocating my entire setup every 45 minutes because the light moved is kind of embarrassing. I have a desk. I have a window. But the window faces east so by noon I'm basically working in shadow and I refuse to turn on a lamp because it changes everything about how I see the washes. So I just pick up my block, my brush jar, my palette and I chase the sun across the apartment like a little lizard. My partner keeps finding random wet paintings on the kitchen table and the bathroom counter and once on the floor by the back door. I have a perfectly good studio corner I am simply not using because the light is wrong and I will die on this hill.

I've been working on this little still life of lemons and a blue pitcher for about a week now, evenings only. And I kept fighting with it, mixing the same shadows over and over, couldn't get them to sit right. Last night I finally looked up and realized my lamp had shifted and I'd been painting with the light coming from the exact opposite direction than where I started. The shadow side was lit, the lit side was shadowed. For a WEEK. I just sat there for a minute and laughed at myself. Re-set the lamp, and honestly it's coming together now. Anyone else have a moment like that where the problem wasn't the painting at all? Because I think I need to hear I'm not the only one who paints for six days under the wrong light.

In summer I can start at six and have good north light until almost noon. Now in November I have maybe two hours in the morning if I'm lucky, and then everything goes flat and grey. I keep trying to paint anyway and just end up fighting the canvas, overmixing, losing the thing I was following. I know the solution is to adapt, move to artificial, shift to smaller work, whatever. But I've never found a lamp that does what daylight does. The colour is never right, the way it falls on the form is dead. So I just stand there and watch the light go and feel sorry for myself. Do you switch to something else when the season changes or do you stubbornly keep trying to make the same work? I haven't figured out the dignified answer yet.

February in Gothenburg gives you maybe five hours of usable light and almost none of it lines up with when I can actually sit down. The last two weeks I've been arranging paper by lamp light and then having to redo half of it the next morning because the shadows lied to me. I bought one of those cheap full-spectrum lamps everyone swears by. I think it just makes me hate the sun more when it finally shows up. The palette I work with is all aged cream and grey so I notice even small shifts in the light, which is a curse. I've started keeping the current piece on the table overnight and just looking at it first thing, before coffee, in whatever light is there. Ten minutes, no touching. It's the only honest look I get all day.

Been fighting with shop lighting for thirty years and I'm still not sure I've got it right. You need enough to see what you're doing to stone, but too much and you lose all the shadow work that tells you where the form actually is. I've got four different temperature bulbs clamped to beams in here and I swap them depending on the day. Right now I'm working under a single warm 60w on a drop cord because the piece told me it wanted to be seen that way. Sounds ridiculous. It's not.

Every winter I forget. I complain about the grey, I paint by lamplight, I tell myself the north light that I chose on purpose was a mistake. And then one morning in early March the sun comes in low and sideways through that same window and hits the wall behind my easel the colour of warm milk, and I remember why I chose this room. There is no decision involved. I just stand there with my coffee and watch it move across the plaster for fifteen minutes. The whole painting I thought was stuck last week looks different. Not better yet, but alive. I did nothing. Grey days make me doubt myself. Not the work, the whole enterprise. Then one yellow hour resets everything. The palette knife I use to scrape and start over, the rags, the smell of linseed in the cold air. Voilà, c'est reparti. I wonder if this is what people who garden feel in April.

I've been waking up at 6 for the past week just to paint the same corner of my kitchen counter. The lime slice from last night, the steel tumbler from morning chai, the way the sun hits the grout between the tiles. It lasts maybe forty minutes and then it's gone, and I know it's ridiculous because I could just take a photo and paint it later. But it's not the same. There's something about catching it while it's happening, while the light is actually moving across the surface. I think this is my current obsession, I can only paint things in the moment they exist. If I photograph them and come back later, the feeling is gone. The urgency is gone. And the painting comes out flat. Anyone else have a weird time-of-day thing they can't let go of? Or am I the only one waking up unreasonably early for a lime slice and a steel glass 🙂