Under the same blue
A pilgrimage my mother and I made to Lacoste, France: a place where the sky felt wide enough to hold both our pasts and the future we were quietly shaping. She is the first artist I have ever witnessed, the one who taught me how light can hold a story and how looking can become a form of love.
I move with her through the landscape not as a daughter shadowing her guide, but as artist cycling back to the source of her own vision. Our gazes in harmony, sometimes in friction against the land itself tests the distance between us.
What emerges is less a travelogue than a dialogue: a weaving of two sensibilities shaped by the same hand yet reaching for different truths. Our path becomes a meditation on lineage and longing, on what it means to inherit an artistic language and then learn to speak it in your own voice.
