An island is a world unto itself. Its boundaries are soft, water, sand, wind, yet clearly felt. Those who travel to a place like Ameland in November are not seeking crowds, but depth. And there, precisely there, space arises for a different way of seeing.

Not just art, but also yourself.

I recognize that stillness. Not on a Wadden island this time, but in the rugged plains of Iceland. In the quiet valleys of Northern Italy. Or in my studio, where the daylight writes its own story across canvas and skin.

What art does when the world briefly falls silent

In my work I search for those moments when everything seems to slow down. Where color doesn’t shout, but breathes. Sometimes, symbols surface like shells after the tide , unexpected, yet full of meaning

My paintings don’t arise from plans or concepts. They reveal themselves, just like clouds can roll in across an empty beach. I work in layers, with light, with rhythms that resist language. But sometimes… I allow myself to be caught. By a sunflower field in an Italian valley. By a house that stands firm in a storm. By stillness that speaks.