Limited Edition Fine Art Print · 80 × 80 cm of painting in the Nocturne Triptych.
I have always been drawn to the moment just before dark.
Not night exactly — that threshold between late afternoon and the hour when colour stops being obvious and starts being something else. More saturated. More itself. As if the fading light makes everything concentrate rather than disappear.
This painting lives in that threshold.
The flowers are not identifiable in the way a botanical illustration is identifiable. They are flowers the way memory is flowers — the impression of petals, the certainty of violet, the specific weight of darkness around something that refuses to dim. I know what anemones look like. I know what they feel like to paint. This canvas held both of those things at the same time, and the result is something between observation and invention.
The dark background took as long as everything else combined. People often ask about the flowers — the centres, the petal edges, the light. But the darkness is half the painting. Getting it to feel full rather than empty, present rather than absent — that is the work no one sees and everyone feels.