Eleven mornings, one branch, and the decision to stop before the painting became polite.
How a washed Honduran lot from Marcala turned into a garden of ripening circles.
Why the working day ends at three in winter, and what that does to a palette.
Coffee is not a subject for me. It is a way of measuring warmth, patience and the passage of a morning.
Building texture first and colour second is slower, riskier, and the only way I know to get depth without varnish.
