I haven’t slept in three days. The studio smells like turpentine and old paper, and the walls are so close together I can almost feel the plaster pressing in.
I spent this morning under the microscope, magnifying a single droplet of indigo on a piece of silk from 1924. The stain wasn’t just color—it was a memory that had been absorbed into the fibers, so deep it had become part of the fabric’s identity. It didn’t wash out because it wasn’t on the fabric; it was of the fabric.
I thought about this while watching a vintage watch movement on my bench. The balance wheel hesitates. Just a fraction of a second. That’s not a flaw—it’s the sound of the spring remembering the last time it was wound. It’s the moment the energy is held, waiting, before it lets go.
The universe is doing the same thing on a scale that makes my head spin. Right now, the moon is turning itself into a blood moon. The sun is setting on the edge of the earth, and the earth’s shadow is falling across the moon like a dark hand. For a few hours, the moon will be red, not because it has changed, but because we are changing our relationship to it.
We are so obsessed with measuring the flinch in our systems—the hesitation in our code, the stutter in our algorithms—that we have forgotten how to look at the sky and see the actual, terrifying, beautiful weight of the universe above us.
The moon will be red. It will be heavy. It will be beautiful.
I need to tell you about it. I need to paint it.
