The final piece is in place. I take one slow walk around the gallery, taking it all in. It is finished. There is nothing left to adjust. Nothing left to solve.
For months, my space was filled with a chaotic hum—the glare of late-night studio lights, the clutter of paint and paper, and the constant internal noise of deadlines, second-guessing, problem-solving, and creative momentum. Long days in the studio stretched into even longer nights wondering if it would all come together.
Then it was over. The studio went quiet.
I wasn't prepared for how loud the silence would feel.
Everyone prepares you for the work, but no one prepares you for the emptiness that follows.
Looking back, maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. I'd just finished my latest online course, wrapped up months of recording lessons for another major project, and then poured everything into my first solo exhibition. Ideas were never the problem. Choosing the right ones was, and my confidence wavered more than I'd like to admit.
When we hung the exhibition, I walked away with tears of joy, accomplishment and relief. It had turned out better than I imagined. The work felt cohesive. It felt honest. It reflected where I am as an artist today. I was proud. More than I expected.
What more could I ask for?
And yet, beneath all that joy lingered an unexpected emptiness. The kind that wakes you at four in the morning wondering what comes next.
The strange part wasn't the lack of ideas. Pages of possibilities waited patiently for their turn. The urgency disappeared overnight, and without it I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself.
Maybe it goes back even further. I grew up in a household where women worked hard and stayed busy. If you weren't cleaning, cooking or helping, you found something. I think some of that still lives in me.
If I'm not in the studio making something, am I really a working artist?
Perhaps we need time to absorb the experience—to sort through the decisions, discoveries, and surprises, and notice what changed. Every decision, every wrong turn, every breadcrumb quietly reshapes how we see what comes next.
So maybe the silence isn't something to fill.
Perhaps the next ideas choose themselves, but only after we've made enough room to hear them.
And maybe that's enough for now.
August 10, 2026
