As We Stood On the Threshold of Paradise

I came across a window into paradise, an old window, hazy and coated in dust, through which the world beyond appears far off and unreal.
Of paradise, I refer to the place of true belonging, a place where the most beautiful moments and cherished memories coexist forever. The view from the window is enchanting but tinged with melancholy and yearning. I press my nose against the glass like a child, trying to get closer, but my breath fogs up the cool surface, making it even harder to see. I become aware of the exquisite anguish of standing on the threshold of paradise but never being able to enter it. Even in the middle of an unforgettable moment, I am already anticipating the loneliness when it is over. The words get caught in my throat as they come rising up: “Won’t you stay, just a little longer?”

I held her in my arms as we stood on the threshold of paradise - Ural Thomas and the Pain in “Smoldering Fire” 

Monsoon Green
2025
70 x 60cm
Oil on canvas

Monsoon Green

My time between wakefulness and sleep, a time to discover new music in the dark. 
The inky black deprivation of sight makes the music burst in vivid hues.
Without fail, no matter what season, what place, I am transported to a hot summer night; cicadas chirping through the open jealousy windows.
The tiny tin-roofed studio my mother and I built our lives around during our first few years in Hawaii.
I am not hot, I have some sort of magical bed linen that keeps cool to the touch. 
The air smells green, monsoon green.

Albatross
2025
70 x 60cm
Oil on canvas

Albatross 

 I ventured deeper and deeper into the darkness, the belly of the beast, as the season turned and the sun edged closer to the horizon on its daily vigil. I donned my black clothes as if camouflaging myself in the darkness. I would go undetected by my albatross. I grew brave and unflinching in the shrinking shivering cold. I began wearing heels, walking along the blasting grey highway. My toes became accustomed to the constraint and pressure, numbed, forgot the feel of a cushioned sneaker.

The Hand Mirror Box 2025
70 x 60cm
Oil on canvas

The Hand Mirror Box

And so I opened the lid of the hand mirror box, a lid I had been pressing closed so tightly. I let it ajar, and all my shadows flooded out. Still, strangely, I was not overrun by them, I let them wash over me, rip through me, I swayed side to side by their forceful turbulence but I was not dragged down with them. I observed them, acknowledged them, but never was I forsaken by the light.