There is the slightest possibility that I may have found a way to secure a studio space to paint in. I'm not sure. It's still hypothetical. But it may work out. Thinking about the idea of painting again made me remember what it feels like.
Painting for me is a ritualistic and sensorial event. I walk in. The studio smells like turpentine, which I love. I usually use a piece of glass for a palette, and the palette is probably smeared with the colors I am using, and looks almost like a painting itself. My beloved brushes are stewing in the coffee can that or glass jar next to the palette, and their handles bear the colors of years and years of painting. I love these brushes. If I am working on a canvas, I have turned it to face the wall the last time I painted. Painings are sensitive, vulnerable creatures. I've always kept mine turned to the wall when they are alone until finished. Leaving them facing outwards is akin to being left paralyzed and naked in front of the world, maybe with your guts hanging out.
I turn the canvas around and sit in a chair and look at it. Sometimes I squint. Sometimes I turn it upside down. Sometimes I pace around. Sometimes I do none of this and get to work, because I may have been obsessing in the back of my mind overnight about what I want to do.
Then I do it.