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Opening Reflection Summer months carry their own effect — joy, sunshine, complete disorganization, a rebellion against routine and structure. Then September arrives, and suddenly it feels as though I’ve been deprived of those very things: the steadiness of routine, the comfort of order, the return of rhythm. I suppose all messages in a bottle float free for a while, only to eventually find stability of land. I had imagined summer differently — a season overflowing with family time alongside a three-day summer art fair, a brand new project release, a limited-edition drop and promotion, hosting out-of-town friends, and somehow keeping peace at home with three kids under eleven (two of them endlessly combative). In my mind, all of it could coexist: the work, the family, the friends, the rest. But reality arrived quickly and showed me otherwise. By the very first week without school, I realized this plan was not sustainable. I stepped back. Withdrew from the summer art fair. Pushed the release of my new project. Went completely quiet on social media. And for the first time in a long time, I allowed the season to be what it chose to be, instead of what I had planned. That intentional release gave space for patience, family, and quiet pockets of rest — long afternoons lost in books, slow mornings with less demand. The pause opened up a deeper question: how do I actually want to move forward? Which projects hold true priority? How much space do I want to give social media? What brings me the most creative joy? When I stripped everything back, what spoke to me most clearly was writing — remembering how vital it is for both my mind and my soul. If you ask me in person how I feel, I often stumble. I lose track of what I meant to say, fumble my words, sometimes abandon the attempt altogether. But writing is different. Writing is a massage for my brain, a rainbow of warm water flowing out of my head, into my hands, onto the page. It releases what I don’t know how to otherwise say. My paintings are no different. I paint with the same intention: expression. To say what I cannot otherwise say — but also to discover what I feel in the very act of painting. I don’t begin with a fixed idea of what needs to be communicated. Whether it’s on wood, paper, or any surface I choose, the work reveals itself only when I give it the space to emerge. Writing is the same: when I open the transparent jar, as obvious as it may be to some, I don’t always know what’s inside — but in the letting out, I finally see it.
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