I have a small room of my own in my father's house. I work there on the days I'm not at the studio. There are a desk, a chair, and a futon laid out on a bare timber floor. There's a crude timber bookshelf with too many books on it. Strewn in between are storage boxes, files, a half-packed overnight bag, more books and my computer. It has the careless messiness of a teenager's bedroom. And it's where I do some of my best work.I spend nearly every day in a large, open, concrete-floored shed, at the edge of a semi-rural town an hour outside Brisbane. With an assistant, I work on up to four paintings at a time and struggle to suppress the nauseating effects of long exposure to enamel fumes. When I return to my room and shut the door, there's a sense of solitude, of everything slowing. I sit at my desk to draw, write or surf the web. I sprawl across the futon for business calls or (too infrequently, these days) to read a book. It's a private space. Noone, not even my boyfriend, visits me here. It's not somewhere I fuck. If I work late, I sleep on the futon. I always wake early in the morning, when the light is still an aqueous grey with no heat in it. Sometimes, I surrender to a sleepy but insistent rush of longing and make myself come. The tension pent-up from a day hunched over a sketch pad or computer keyboard recedes with the first breathless press of pleasure. And afterwards, I sleep again for a short while, dreamless.