Inspiration

Inspiration is not a sudden idea but a form of trained attention. Sometimes it appears without warning—in a conversation, a late-afternoon light, a line underlined in a book—and other times you have to go out and look for it with patience. It is not a state; it is a disposition: to be open, to look without expectation, to be touched by what happens.

For me, inspiration is more physical than mental. It begins with the eyes but quickly moves to the body. It feels like a subtle, almost electric sensation that turns the ordinary into something significant: a reflection in glass, the sound of a shutter, a texture I had never noticed. That gesture or image lingers, and slowly becomes a visual idea.

When something inspires me, I don’t think about a finished piece yet. I simply register the impulse: a word, a photo, a colour saved on the phone. Sometimes those notes lead nowhere, but they are seeds that keep the desire to create alive. With time I learned that inspiration doesn’t help much without work. The studio is where that energy finds form; where emotion meets technique and doubt.

True inspiration appears when doing and looking meet. It is not a magical moment but a conversation between what I know and what I don’t. Between what the material allows and what it resists. In that dialogue works are born, and they carry traces of earlier gazes: journeys, readings, encounters, grey days, silences.

In the end, to be inspired is an act of humility. It is recognising that the world always has something more to say, that we have never seen it completely. Inspiration is not a tool for production but a way to stay awake. It is how I keep curiosity alive, how I go on asking even when there is no answer. Every work that begins comes from that state of listening: a moment when the everyday opens and reveals its mystery.