Where the Moths Wait

Every artist’s first utterance carries the ghost of what could not be spoken, and this is mine. I found the threshold at the blue hour, where memory clings like mist to the world’s skin. Every pigment—indigo, pewter, verdigris—was chosen for its ache, its longing to recall the light just beyond reach. The figure in the marsh is not a stranger; it is the residue of all farewells, blurred by time and tenderness. The moths—what else but wishes circling what warmth remains? I made this work to hold a silence I could not bear to lose: that hush before dawn, heavy with all we once hoped for. There is no resolution here, only the shimmer of what nearly was—a flicker at the edge of vision, where the world waits to be remembered. In the act of making, I lost and found myself, and invite you to do the same.