There’s a moment in the studio when the edges of the self blur, and all that matters is the act of making. I’m never quite sure when it begins—somewhere between the grain of charcoal pressed against canvas, or maybe the swirl of cobalt as turpentine slips in, and the pigment seems impossibly alive.
Time goes odd here; you forget to watch the clock. My hands slip, almost of their own accord, finding texture and resistance, searching out that spot where intention dissolves and the materials speak back. It’s in this exchange—the snap of charcoal, the glimmer of light off oil—that something essential stirs.
It’s not absence; it’s presence of a different order. I lose myself, yes, but only to return with something truer, something that feels like it might outlast the moment. And as the evening folds golden light through these tall windows, I linger on the threshold—quietly proud, not of the result, but of the surrender. The work is everything. In letting go, I find what I was looking for all along.

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