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Nothing here is intended to instruct or persuade.

Today, Sunday, was one of those rare, fresh crisp clean days. The light was so generous, the air offered the promise of an early spring. I slept in being a Sunday and was surprised when my eyes opened slowly to the light in my room, id slept so deeply the light did not wake me up, im not sure what stirred me but i was surprised by the amount of light in the room. Sundays i make a generous breakfast for the family and we all converge at the dining table well rested at 11.30am,

It hung there quietly, never explained, never repositioned, simply present while life moved around it.

During these times, it can feel almost absurd to return to the studio. Nothing will be fixed by paint. No decision will be resolved by clay. No uncertainty will dissolve because a brush is lifted. And yet — the call remains.

Art does not solve what is broken. It does not offer answers. But it can hold space.

Solitude for me on days like this are not loneliness. It is a form of listening.