There’s a certain kind of beginning that doesn’t announce itself with momentum.
It arrives more quietly — through stillness, through light, through the soft recognition of a space that will eventually hold so much of you.
At first, I didn’t do very much here.
I thought I might unpack everything, prepare surfaces, dive straight into the next piece.
But instead, I found myself just… sitting — letting the room breathe around me.
Some days I’d come in and do nothing more than stand beside the easel, noticing how the light fell across the floorboards or how the shadows stretched across the wall. There’s a slowness to this space — a gentleness I didn’t realise I needed.
Every hour feels different here:
morning light is tender, almost indecisive;
midday feels open and honest;
and late afternoon moves with a golden softness that makes everything — even the unfinished works — feel momentarily complete.
There was a moment the other day when the sun hit the wall just right, casting the faintest echo of the window across the paint boxes — as if the room was sketching itself. Little scenes like this have become their own quiet conversations.
The work is beginning to return in small ways.
A mark here.
A layer there.
The first gentle test of colour.
I’ve realised that settling into a new studio isn’t something that happens through arranging or organising or producing. It happens through paying attention. Through letting yourself be unhurried. Through allowing the room to shape you a little before you shape