The studio where I paint my enamels is in a semi-industrial area of western Sydney. Hot, drab, acres of concrete and brick, it's very different to the beachside suburb where I live. I like the contrast: bunker-like warehouses, scuffed bricks and rusted, corrugated iron, huge metal roller doors, high gates and tin sheds. The bleak regularity is calming. There's no chaos and everything smells of industry. I've been trying out a brush, one with long natural bristles, to see if it makes painting outlines faster or easier. It doesn't. Today I bought some of the cheap, short nylon brushes that I normally use. I'm happier working with them and I can control the paint more effectively.
I'm at a frustrating stage of going over every inch of three re-painted works, adjusting the shape and thickness of the outlines so that every part of the image looks seamless and fluid. It's a neurotic process that feels like it could go on forever. But it's essential to the work. I ignore the tedium and just get on with it.