A passing breeze, and forty minutes of midsummer softness.
Last night, after days of relentless heat, the sun finally began to set. A breeze—gentle and cool—found its way into the studio. I had left the window open, and that passing wind felt like a quiet gift from summer itself. It slipped through the stillness of the room and gently eased the restlessness that had lingered all day.
It was then I noticed two roses in a vase by the window. Not especially grand, but in the light of the fading sun, they looked quietly radiant—petals flushed with shades of pink, orange and red, as if holding onto the last warmth of the evening sky. I had sketched them once, casually, just as they were beginning to bloom. Now, looking at them again in this light, I picked up my brush and began painting directly over that little sketch in my book.
There was no plan beyond that. The colour flowed intuitively: pink-orange-red for the blooms, and a background that slowly drifted into pale green, deep green, and muted violet—tones that captured the stillness and shadow of a summer dusk. With water as my medium, the pigments moved naturally across the paper, creating unexpected textures and a sense of quiet movement.
I like to think the roses, too, were comforted by that soft breeze. After such intense heat, perhaps they were, like me, a little relieved.
The piece was completed in just 40 minutes—painted over a simple sketch, led entirely by the feeling of the moment. A fleeting summer study; a quiet conversation between rose, dusk, and wind.
