The table runs the length of the north wall, under the tallest windows. It is an old workshop bench, about twelve feet long, and its top is a record of every piece made in this room. I scrape it down once a year and then leave it alone.
At any moment there are four or five works on it, each at a different stage. One has a fresh ground drying. One has a print pressed in and is resting. One is waiting for a decision I have not made yet. Moving between them keeps me from overworking any single piece, which is the easiest mistake to make with wet paint.
At the far end sit the tools I reach for most: two palette knives, a soft roller, a jar of wide brushes, a stack of tracing paper and a spray bottle for keeping a layer open a little longer. The paint wells are refilled each morning with the colors of the day, rarely more than four.
Visitors sometimes ask if it is ever clean. It is, for about an hour after the yearly scrape. Then the first piece goes down and the table starts filling in again.