Purest Form of Generosity
30 × 25 × 4 cm
Acrylic on canvas.
They stand in the window, framed by the soft, golden spill of morning light, their form held in silhouette—quiet, still, as if part of the light itself. We know them—not through words or facts, but through something immediate and felt, something that lives beneath language. And yet, even in that knowing, there’s a recognition that we can never fully reach them. They remain whole and distant in their stillness, like a star reflected in water. In simply seeing them, something gentle begins to unfurl—not longing, not curiosity, but attention so full it feels like love. Simone Weil wrote that attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity, and in this moment, that truth lives in us fully.
Beside them, a plant hangs low, its vines brushing against their shoulder as though the two have long known each other. The leaves seem to move with their breath, or perhaps with the light itself, blurring the edge between what is alive and what is witnessing. The brilliance that filters through is not passive; it blooms forward—dazzling, golden, reaching. It extends not from the window, but from the space between them and the plant, as if love has found a form in light, and light has found a way to reach us.
It lasts only a moment. A held breath, a stillness before the world resumes its rhythm. But in that brief quiet, something takes root—without history, without conclusion. A recognition, wordless and whole. We know them, and yet we do not. And somehow, that is enough.
Free shipping anywhere in the world.
30 × 25 × 4 cm
Acrylic on canvas.
They stand in the window, framed by the soft, golden spill of morning light, their form held in silhouette—quiet, still, as if part of the light itself. We know them—not through words or facts, but through something immediate and felt, something that lives beneath language. And yet, even in that knowing, there’s a recognition that we can never fully reach them. They remain whole and distant in their stillness, like a star reflected in water. In simply seeing them, something gentle begins to unfurl—not longing, not curiosity, but attention so full it feels like love. Simone Weil wrote that attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity, and in this moment, that truth lives in us fully.
Beside them, a plant hangs low, its vines brushing against their shoulder as though the two have long known each other. The leaves seem to move with their breath, or perhaps with the light itself, blurring the edge between what is alive and what is witnessing. The brilliance that filters through is not passive; it blooms forward—dazzling, golden, reaching. It extends not from the window, but from the space between them and the plant, as if love has found a form in light, and light has found a way to reach us.
It lasts only a moment. A held breath, a stillness before the world resumes its rhythm. But in that brief quiet, something takes root—without history, without conclusion. A recognition, wordless and whole. We know them, and yet we do not. And somehow, that is enough.
Free shipping anywhere in the world.
30 × 25 × 4 cm
Acrylic on canvas.
They stand in the window, framed by the soft, golden spill of morning light, their form held in silhouette—quiet, still, as if part of the light itself. We know them—not through words or facts, but through something immediate and felt, something that lives beneath language. And yet, even in that knowing, there’s a recognition that we can never fully reach them. They remain whole and distant in their stillness, like a star reflected in water. In simply seeing them, something gentle begins to unfurl—not longing, not curiosity, but attention so full it feels like love. Simone Weil wrote that attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity, and in this moment, that truth lives in us fully.
Beside them, a plant hangs low, its vines brushing against their shoulder as though the two have long known each other. The leaves seem to move with their breath, or perhaps with the light itself, blurring the edge between what is alive and what is witnessing. The brilliance that filters through is not passive; it blooms forward—dazzling, golden, reaching. It extends not from the window, but from the space between them and the plant, as if love has found a form in light, and light has found a way to reach us.
It lasts only a moment. A held breath, a stillness before the world resumes its rhythm. But in that brief quiet, something takes root—without history, without conclusion. A recognition, wordless and whole. We know them, and yet we do not. And somehow, that is enough.
Free shipping anywhere in the world.