Stopped too early

Or paused too late.

I learned that material can sometimes carry more meaning than space.

I discovered this in my studio — among things that were not yet anywhere.

There was a work that needed time.

I didn’t know what it would become, only that it had to stay —not cleared away. Not finished. Not pushed forward.

I let it stay.

That staying turned out not to be postponement, but a form of perseverance.

Not perseverance of speed or willpower, but perseverance of attention.

Staying while things are messy.

While no decision is near.

While nothing confirms that you are doing it right.

It asks for discipline

and the courage not to leave.

The word antibody emerged from a search for a form of protection that isn’t aggressive.

One that responds precisely.

That doesn’t destroy all life across the battlefield,

but distinguishes.

That idea stayed with me

in how I lived.

I was standing quite literally next to that work.

Not in front of it. Not behind it.

Beside it.

In compassion with the other tree.

And that turned out not to be a random position.

My husband works every day on software for computational chemistry,

aimed at developing cancer medicines —invisible work, deep inside chemical structures. Calculations,

precise, persistent, every day ups and downs without heroics.

We all know someone who has become ill,

fighting a battle against cancer, dementia,

or other dangerous attacks.

I don’t need to turn that into a big story.

Protection was not an abstract idea for me this year.

Strangely, it wasn’t about fighting.

It was more about being aware of danger and staying there.

Staying.

Staying precisely.

In my studio, I saw the same principle reflected back.

Care that doesn’t call attention to itself.

Work that doesn’t show results immediately.

A nest you only notice when it is at eye level.

The only kind of protection I found

against all attacks is attention.

Awareness.

I found myself less inclined to tidy up.

To smooth everything out.

To speed things along.

I love clarity,

but clarity sometimes comes too early.

Some things need to remain complicated first.

Heavy. Tangible. Awkward.

Material can carry that better than space.

I always thought I was good at stopping in time.

In art, that’s a familiar theme: knowing when something is ready.

And yet I noticed something strange.

Looking back, I couldn’t find the perfect photograph—

as if I had either stopped too early or paused too late.

Maybe that’s part of it.

The moment when you should stop

cannot itself be made more precise.

In hindsight, it’s always just a little too early

or a little too late.

I feel a responsibility that materials do not simply pass through.

That they have, at the very least, for me, had meaning somewhere.

You could almost think that materials are alive

and should not simply be allowed to cease to exist.

If I learned anything this year, it is this:

I don’t always have to move forward.

I don’t have to make everything lighter.

I’m allowed and willing to stand beside things that need time.

That goes for work.

For people.

For life itself.

And perhaps you recognise this.

That staying — not clearing away, not pushing through —can sometimes be precisely what makes movement possible.

Staying with the world —with materials,

with the climate,

with illness,

with friends