Speaking of control, dealing with temperature and humidity in an old leaky warehouse can be an exercise in planning and patience with the weather. Hours spent flattening and cutting wood can be wiped out by a sudden downpour; hydrophilic pieces of veneer start to curl right up and not fit next to each other any longer because different cuts and species of wood absorb moisture at varying rates. I’ve gotten better at anticipating the effects of outside conditions and being flexible in working around these types of days. Don’t cut on wet days (check the weather forecast)!

The first machine I am concerned with when I enter the studio is, of course, the coffee maker. I am very precious about how I dole out my daily allotment of coffee (I battle with insomnia and the doc says there are lots of rules around when to have it; never after 2 p.m.). I walk 1.5 miles in the mornings after I drop my daughter at the bus stop, but I don’t want to waste the caffeine on that walk. I get energy just from being on the street. I have a couple of sips when I wake up, to prevent a caffeine headache, and I make a cup of coffee when I get into the studio. Then I sit down to draw. I love this part. I wish all day could be that moment.

I rent space from the sculptor Ursula von Rydingsvard. Before I moved in here, I used to walk by this building and peer in through the roll gates and see her and her team cutting huge pieces of cedar. I would try to carry that energy with me as I walked to my old studio on the next block. If they could wrestle those huge blocks of cedar, I could handle these puny pieces of veneer. Over the years, I’ve seen the way she has maintained her studio practice through motherhood, illness, and personal loss. I never lose sight of the fact that as challenging as this way of life is, it is worth it. I can feel and hear the productivity coming from downstairs as a reminder that I’m not alone.

I have been told by a neighbor that this studio was a coffin factory in the last century. My space was meant to be an apartment, so it is divided into rooms. It used to have a stove, but the fire marshal ordered that away. It was fine—I don’t cook at the studio and have always been more comfortable with toaster ovens and microwaves when it comes to lunch.

After doing something high stakes, I’m tired and usually engage in productive procrastination—cleaning the studio, flattening wood, sorting veneer scraps, priming paper for paint. I would love to have a zero-waste studio. Sometimes this leads to serious procrastination, like attempting to make paint out of ground waste, crumpling bits of wood into compostable crumbs, and reusing things that should probably not be reused.

Another important tool in the studio is my eraser. I love big white erasers, gummy style, and especially the Mono Zero eraser with a 2.3 mm precision tip. I erase as much as I draw; probably one out of every two marks I make never happened. In addition to this crucial tool is the generic #11 knife blade. It allows me to cut drawings on all kinds of material, no matter the size. Finally, my Epilog laser cutter is essential. It’s only 18 by 12 inches, so I still have to hand-cut larger pieces of wood veneer. But I’ve used it for almost every artwork I’ve made in the past 18 years. At this point it’s like an old car: it breaks, I open it up and tug on a belt, and it’s good to go. It’s quite simple technology, and there is no repair service, so they talk you through the part changes over the phone. It’s frustrating, but exhilarating once you get going again. Any line I can draw, I can then cut with this tool.