Where Does the Time Go?
There’s a question I find myself asking almost every day. Where does the time go?
As an artist, I’m comfortable in the language of paint. Colour, texture, and marks come naturally to me. Words, on the other hand, don’t always arrive so easily. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about time, how quickly it slips by, and how often I find myself caught between the intention to paint and the pull of everyday life.
Getting out of the house and into the studio sounds simple, but it rarely feels that way. There are always jobs waiting. Washing, emails, and small chores that seem harmless but quietly fill the hours. Before I know it, the day has moved on, and I’m left wondering why starting can sometimes feel like the hardest part.
Procrastination is a funny thing. It doesn’t look like doing nothing. It looks like doing everything else. Yet I’ve realised that the moments when I do make it into the studio, when I shut out the noise and begin, are the moments when time feels different. It stretches, softens, and becomes something I can step into rather than chase.
Maybe that’s what this practice keeps teaching me. Making space to create isn’t about finding more time, but about choosing it, again and again.
And perhaps the question isn’t only where the time goes, but how we decide to spend the small, ordinary pieces of it.