Finding my way back

I didn’t leave art in a dramatic way.

There was no clear ending, no decision to stop.

It thinned out slowly — becoming quieter, postponed, practical. Life asked for other things, and I answered.

This season feels like a return, but not a restart.

Winter has been patient with me. The days are pale and slow, the light brief and precise. Nothing tries to impress. Everything simply is. I find myself drawn to moments that almost disappear — fog lifting, frozen reeds, a shadow crossing snow. I don’t chase them. I notice them.

That’s where the work lives now.

I’m not interested in producing more, faster, louder. I’m interested in staying. In looking until something settles. In letting a photograph or a page remain unfinished if that’s what feels honest. The practice is quiet on purpose — presence over output, restraint over explanation.

What I’m working on shifts with the season. Some days it’s a photograph that holds just enough light. Some days it’s a painted response, or a few lines of text that don’t need to resolve. There’s no strict schedule. I follow rhythm instead — energy, weather, inner readiness.

This isn’t about finding my old way back to art.

It’s about allowing a different one.

One that leaves space.

One that accepts pauses.

One that doesn’t demand clarity before beginning.

If there’s a theme running through this work, it’s impermanence — what passes, what lingers, what leaves only a trace. What remains is rarely the moment itself, but the quiet mark it leaves behind.

That’s enough, for now.

I’m here.

I’m working.

I’m listening.