Every Friday, I clean my studio.
It is not a chore—it is a ritual, a meditation that drives my practice forward. As I put things away, I am not just tidying; I am revisiting. Each clear plastic bin is a library of experiences, a living archive of histories waiting to be rediscovered, retold, and remixed.
Sometimes, a material I had tucked aside calls out insistently, use me now. Other times, I stumble upon a project I had abandoned in frustration, only to find that the solution has quietly revealed itself with time. What was once stuck begins to flow again.
The act of cycling through materials becomes a dialogue. Textures whisper stories, colors tug at memories, and forgotten scraps offer new directions. In these moments, the materiality of my practice shows itself as storytelling, guiding my hands and spirit.
Cleaning becomes organizing my ideas, making space for clarity. It often spills into journaling, as I empty out thoughts into my sketchbook, making room for new ones to arrive. Because I am always weaving multiple projects at once, this weekly ritual is an editing process, helping me focus, reset, and refine.
And when the work is done, when every bin is stacked and every surface clear, my studio stands ready, an open field for the next round of experiments. Friday cleaning is both an ending and a beginning, a pause that breathes new life into my practice.