1 June, 2014

1 June 2014

I should be packing. My hands should be wrapping things, sealing boxes, clearing shelves. But instead, I find myself here, writing.

Books and objects are my nemesis. I’ve tried to declutter over the years, many times. But when it comes to those - things that hold stories -I fail. Packing them feels like tracing the archives of my mind. It’s slow, sometimes laborious, but reflective too. Like connecting the dots. And it reminded me of how I found clay.

Since the wood firing, I’ve found myself returning to these thoughts more often. So here I am again, writing.

Most of the books are now in boxes, though I’ve kept a few aside for the evenings. One of them is Henri Matisse: A Second Life by Alastair Sooke—a short reflection on Matisse’s final years, and the vivid cut-outs he created when his body had begun to give out, but his spirit had not.

Tate Modern, 2014

Lately, I’ve been thinking more about that Tate Modern exhibition back in 2014. It was 1 June when I first visited—an early afternoon with a friend. A special exhibition devoted entirely to his cut-outs. I’d seen them before—in books, in images—but I hadn’t really seen them.

Looking back, that exhibition stirred something in me. Until that day, I appreciated art and craft. I enjoyed them to some extent. But I didn’t really know them.

I still remember the energy—an overwhelming joy radiating from every wall. So much colour. So much movement. One entire wall was covered in small to medium works: framed cut-outs arranged in rhythm, almost pulsing. And though I’ve always been drawn to a minimal aesthetic, I was surprised by how deeply those vivid colours moved me.

There was a photograph of Matisse—bedridden or in a wheelchair—cutting shapes from painted paper, making leaves. After surviving colon cancer and believing his time was nearly up, he slowly began to recover. And in that recovery, he began to see beauty everywhere again. Despite the war, despite his physical limits, he created as if each day was a gift. He called it his second life.

His cut-outs were a celebration. A final burst of creative energy—full of light, full of life.

I left the exhibition smiling, buoyed. A few weeks later, I went back—this time alone. I lingered. I read every note, every letter. I don’t think I’d ever been so deeply moved by art before.

Something clicked in me. I was thirsty—for inspiration, for joy, for something to stir my hands into motion. I found myself drawn to Modern Art, especially artists from around that time—Miró, Klee—artists whose work carried a childlike energy, a kind of unfiltered delight.

Later that year, I began ceramics. I needed to make something with my hands. I wanted to play. To shape something tangible. And I haven’t stopped since.

Miro’s studio in Mallorca

That exhibition carried me to unexpected places. I visited Miró’s studio in Mallorca—bathed in light, with canvases leaning in every direction and charcoal sketches still dancing on the walls. I also travelled to Vence in the south of France, where Matisse designed the Chapelle du Rosaire in close collaboration with Sister Jacques-Marie, once his night nurse. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d walk right past. I almost did.

Chapelle du Rosaire in Vence

Inside, the chapel is radiant. Matisse’s stained glass windows spill colour across the floor: bright blues, leaves, flowers. Light, everywhere. I was alone when I visited, and it filled me with something I can only describe as joy.

The letter from Le Corbusier to Matisse

On my way out, I came across a letter from the architect, Le Corbusier to Matisse. It read:

“Dear Matisse,
I went to see the chapel of Vence.
All is joy and limpidity, youth.
The visitors, by a spontaneous selection, are dignified, delighted and delightful.
Your work gave me a whiff of courage—not that I lacked any, but I was filled with it.
This little chapel is a grand testimony of what is true.
Thanks to you, once again, life is beautiful. Thank you.
Yours, my most amicable souvenir,
Le Corbusier”

Since then, the way Matisse approached his work has stayed with me—as a quiet but persistent force. That joyful energy—that tickle I felt standing in front of his cut-outs—still serves as a kind of compass. And that same tickle, I now chase in clay, in music, in art, in stories.