Why I’m Letting This Series Unfold Slowly
This is a space for process, reflection, and work in formation rather than finished explanation.
I didn’t begin this series with an answer. I began it with a sensation — something accumulating, pressing, asking to be held rather than resolved.
At first, it wasn’t clear what the work was “about.” There was no outline, no plan for arrival. What I felt instead was a need to move more slowly than usual — to resist the urge to make meaning too quickly or to decide where the work was headed before it had time to speak for itself.
Slowness, for me, isn’t hesitation. It’s a form of listening.
This series asks for patience because it’s being built from the inside out. The marks arrive before language. The atmosphere comes before structure. I often don’t understand what a painting is carrying until I’ve lived with it for a while — until I’ve stood near it long enough to feel where it tightens, where it opens, where it resists being finished.
There’s a cultural pressure toward immediacy: to respond, to clarify, to produce. But this work doesn’t come from reaction. It comes from accumulation — emotional, somatic, collective. It needs time for things to settle, shift, and sometimes contradict themselves.
I’m interested in what happens when I don’t rush toward coherence.
Some paintings stall. Some ask to be taken apart. Others seem to arrive intact and quiet, without drama. I’m learning not to treat ease as suspicion, or difficulty as proof. Both are part of the same weather system.
Letting the series unfold slowly is a way of protecting its integrity — and my own. It allows uncertainty to remain useful rather than something to overcome. It makes room for restraint, for pauses, for the kind of attention that can’t be forced.
I don’t know yet what this body of work will fully become.
I know that it’s asking me to stay present, to trust the pace, and to listen long enough for what’s forming to reveal itself.
Thank you for meeting the work with slowness.
