Every creative cycle has a quiet beginning — not a flash of inspiration, but a pause. When the noise of the day fades, I start to notice the materials again: the weight of the paper, the drag of the pen, the way graphite leaves a trace like breath on glass.
Lately I’ve been drawing without an agenda, just following lines to see where they lead. A curve becomes an antler, a mark starts to suggest motion, and soon there’s a form I didn’t intend but somehow recognize. The best work always arrives that way — when the hand is busy and the mind has stopped narrating.
The studio feels like a conversation between attention and accident. There are half-finished prints drying by the window, sketches of Vale’s instruments on the desk, a page from the Astral Cabinet pinned to the wall. Each reminds me that returning to the work isn’t about starting over — it’s about re-entering the dialogue.