The first box of strawberries stood ready for midsummer. I thought of a dream, and then of my grandmother.

A few days earlier I was sitting with the drypoint plastic, the radio murmuring in the background. The Minister of Culture spoke of art as something that should “unite the people.” I thought about that, and about coaxing the sock out of Smilla’s (my dogs) mouth.

In the quiet in-betweens, I read about Yeong-hye’s silent transformation in The Vegetarian. She stops eating. She dreams of blood and leaves.

Smoke from a nearby grill drifts in through the courtyard window. The mood of the novel drifts into my drawings. The images that remain close are those that stay close to the body.

I’ve started working with small drypoint prints. Fragments of everyday forms that linger, not for what they depict, but for what they carry: memory, body, silence, resistance.

The small format requires compromise. The needle against the plate resists. Drawing small is awkward, and each line must be chosen carefully.

I think about the image’s ability to hold what cannot be said, and the threat against that. The demand for clarity, usefulness, morality. Institutions are merging. The distance between art and politics is shrinking. And violence? It can live precisely there: in care, in silence, in routine.

With that in my body, I return to the plate. To dwell in what doesn’t fit the agenda. To the quiet resistance: slow, but in no sense passive.