The creative process is rarely linear. It expands, contracts, pauses, and restarts—sometimes unexpectedly. Over the past few weeks, I've been exploring oil on paper, drawn to the unseen world beneath the frozen ground. I imagined the bulbs lying dormant, tucked safely in the earth, waiting for their moment to push toward the light. What happens in that hidden space—the quiet transformations before the bloom—feels deeply connected to the act of making art.
Yet, just as I began to immerse myself in this exploration, I was caught between life's obligations and the irresistible pull of creative work. I had to leave town to tend to family matters. When I returned, I was met with an almost overwhelming resistance—the creative spark that had once felt nearly intoxicating now seemed like a distant memory.
Despite feeling like I didn't have a creative bone in my body, I discovered that my imagination had been quiet at work, even in my absence. In my sketchbook, I traced the life cycle of flowers from memory—the quiet bulbs gathering energy, the first shoots breaking through the soil, the wild bloom of fields in spring, and the eventual fading of petals back into the earth. These sketches, drawn freely and without expectation, led to new compositions. I scaled them up in charcoal on paper, feeling my way back into the work through shape and movement.
I also created an inspiration wall—a visual map of colors, textures, and images. This space in the studio will be a reminder of ideas and will continue to evolve alongside the work. Gathering these elements felt like honoring the pauses in my process rather than fighting against them. Creativity doesn't always arrive in great waves of productivity; sometimes, it lingers quietly in the background, waiting for the right moment to resurface
The short film above is a visual diary capturing the past few weeks in the studio. It’s a collection of glimpses into my process: experiments with materials, photographs, primary sources of inspiration, and the quiet practice of making. This compilation is about the in-between moments—the hesitations, the discoveries, and the small sparks that build toward something more significant. It’s a way of honoring the nonlinear nature of creativity, where every pause, every shift, and every return becomes part of the story.
As I settle back into the studio's rhythm, I remind myself that these pauses—these moments of resistance—are part of the process, not roadblocks. Just like the bulbs beneath the frozen ground, ideas take time to gather energy before breaking through.
love, Renée
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