Cold wax and oil on paper
7 x 11 in., framed in oak
Some seasons don’t arrive glowing. They arrive dimly lit, carried by whatever small flicker you can still find.
This piece came together slowly, through scraping, burying, softening, and letting the surface hold onto its own history. The darker lower half feels scorched in places, heavy with weather and memory, while the pale upper field keeps opening itself back up again. Not bright exactly, but willing.
The title came from the realization that not all light originates within us. Sometimes we survive by reflecting the warmth, faith, steadiness, or hope of someone else until we can recognize our own again.
“Borrowed Light” lives in that tension between exhaustion and tenderness, between ruin and return. Quietly holding both.
Cold wax and oil on paper
7 x 11 in., framed in oak
Some seasons don’t arrive glowing. They arrive dimly lit, carried by whatever small flicker you can still find.
This piece came together slowly, through scraping, burying, softening, and letting the surface hold onto its own history. The darker lower half feels scorched in places, heavy with weather and memory, while the pale upper field keeps opening itself back up again. Not bright exactly, but willing.
The title came from the realization that not all light originates within us. Sometimes we survive by reflecting the warmth, faith, steadiness, or hope of someone else until we can recognize our own again.
“Borrowed Light” lives in that tension between exhaustion and tenderness, between ruin and return. Quietly holding both.
