Where a painting begins

A painting never begins on the canvas.

It starts somewhere quieter, sometimes with a song, sometimes with a dream, sometimes with a moment that lingers longer than it should.

A colour that refuses to leave. A feeling I cannot yet name.

I carry it for days. Sometimes weeks.

And then, without warning, it asks to become visible.

Why I return to water

Water holds memory differently. It reflects, but never repeats. It moves, but never rushes.

When the sunlight sparkles on the surface, time stops. I dissolve into it. My body remains, but my inner self drifts somewhere else entirely.

It is a reset. A returning to myself.

I think that is why I keep coming back, not to paint water itself, but to paint what it feels like to be suspended between stillness and motion.

Somewhere between clarity and depth, something honest appears.

When a painting is finished

A painting does not end. It quiets.

There is no clear moment, only a feeling that nothing more is needed.