Whenever creative loneliness occurs, July emptiness, January blank, I turn to ‘Miró in his Studio’. He sits there, surrounded by works in progress. I bought the ageless book in swishy Waterstones in Dublin in 1996. Photographs of Joan Miró’s tables of found objects: lead weights, scallop shells, pinecones. I meditate on tins of brushes and paint-accreted benches. Philip Hunter said the studio is where we belong. Meaning, the artworld is nonsense, just keep to work. “Miró with his biro,” he jested with an eye-rhyme. Waiting, I open a page on a bookstand for days: black figures, watery air, full-scale sunlight.