I’m definitely not a morning person — and yet, Sunday mornings have always felt a little magical to me. There’s a softness in the air, a slower kind of time. As a child, it meant sleeping in, foggy tea under sleepy eyes, and cartoons on TV. The first two still apply. But now, it’s also a moment to arrive — to pause, to breathe.

This painting is my ode to the Sunday morning: the slow beginning of a day when the ordinary feels lighter, and small things seem to grow in size. In that softness and delay, there’s space — to land, to come home, to reconnect. After long stretches away from friends, family or love, Sunday morning is the perfect moment to draw close again.

It’s forgetting what you were doing because a bird showed up on the balcony. It’s the realisation that across continents and decades, people have felt that same sun on their skin. It’s getting lost in the kind of thoughts you skip during the week — the gentle, useless ones. That’s the state I wanted to capture here: a dreamy presence somewhere between lucidity and slumber, where you don’t have to choose between thinking and feeling. A Sunday morning as a kind of secular sacredness.

Even though this work feels light and personal, it touches on a recurring thread in my practice: slowing down as a form of attention. In a world that moves faster and faster, I look for moments where time dissolves — and the everyday regains its meaning.

So when you look at this painting, I invite you to get a little lost.
Let go. Drift slowly.
it’s okay, It’s Sunday, after all.