Slowly, the debris from 12 months of using my studio as a storage room is peeling away. Piles of unhomed “bits” sit in the loungeroom, waiting to be rehomed, and my space slowly starts to feel like mine once more. In amongst the piles, lay a little canvas. Half-started, and then discarded in disgust when my vision didn’t miraculously take form in the instant I dipped my brush into paint. But I couldn’t bring myself to turf it. I’m a tightwad like that. So I bulldozed a pile of paper to one side of the desk, and lay it down. A furative glance over my shoulder to ensure I wouldn’t get caught painting when I was supposedly cleaning, and out came some paint. A fresh coat. A fresh start. A fresh year. I’m still not quite sure where this peice will end up, or what it will look like. But it’s one of those pieces where the journey is more important than the destination.