I recently read The Little Book of Talent by Daniel Coyle, and it’s made me rethink how I work—not in sweeping transformations, but in the smallest units possible: time, space, skill, media. Dust-sized increments. The stuff you might overlook.

So I started tending to the dust.

• I emptied my shoulder bag of anything not tied to an active project.

• I cleared my studio of visual material that doesn’t inform my current work.

• I began tracking not just my available time slots, but the spaces I’d be in during those times—reorganizing supplies into “action kits” split between home and studio.

• I started cleaning up after each session so the next one begins with a clean slate.

• But I also try to end mid-line or mid-project—so I know exactly where to begin again. If I finish something, I leave a note or pull out materials as a signal to my future self.

I carry a mid-size blue ArtBin (a Scrap Exchange find) packed only with tools for my current work—no extras. I also carry a watercolor set with 36 pans and a few tubes of white and black gouache.

If I had to name one constant right now, it’s the V5 rollerball pen in black. That’s the tool I reach for most.

I’ve underlined books for years, but now I think of it as practice—training my hand to draw straight lines.

When I wash dishes, I sometimes close my eyes to better feel the contours of each object. It’s not performative. It’s just another way to observe.

In short, I’m learning to maximize tiny moments by optimizing spaces and recognizing time not as lost or wasted, but available. This practice makes me more aware that I think creatively all the time—not just in front of canvas and paint. And that realization, oddly enough, has made me calmer.

I remember Chuck Pell showing me a pocket-sized watercolor book he made. It held a palette and a bit of water. It fit in his breast pocket. At stop lights, he’d paint. One painting per light.

Where do you find small pockets of time and space?
And how have you adapted to meet them?