I keep my scrap art—loose papers with quick sketches, thumbnails, and plan notes—stacked in a shallow wooden tray on a low shelf in my studio, the edges splayed from frequent riffling; some pages are clipped into a battered metal clipboard beside a jar of charcoal stubs, while others are folded into corners of an old paint-splattered portfolio case under the worktable. A few favorite scraps get pinned to a cork board above the bench where they catch light and invite revisits, and the rest live in a flat file drawer labeled SCRAP so they’re easy to pull when a stubborn idea needs a spark. The space is functional and honest—these bits are both debris and resource, a visible map of experiments that often migrate into finished pieces on canvas and reclaimed objects.